


Not a Matter of Chance, but of Choice

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series - and AU from S4.  Instead of tearing the veil between worlds and summoning the duracha Morgause’s death had an entirely different result.  Unfortunately the destiny of Merlin and Arthur has begun to unravel because of it and they must find a way to fix what’s broken between them and get their future, and the future of Albion, back on track.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> ETA - This is now complete! So sorry it took longer than intended. It also grew a bit beyond its original scope thanks to my beta's asking the question, 'but how did they get there'. 
> 
> This is being posted as a WIP, as I’m waiting to get part 2 back from my poor beleaguered beta who – on top of dealing with me and my last-minute writing ass - is currently dealing with the joy of temperatures well below zero and the havoc that is playing in both our lives (yay for space heaters, boo for furnaces that decide to break down). The 2nd half will be posted as soon as she gets it back to me (and I make any necessary updates). weis07 I’m so sorry not to have this posted in full yet – but I do hope it’s worth the wait. I tried to work as much of your prompt in as possible (though it’s a little light on Knights) and really enjoyed working with the concepts of what it means for Merlin and Arthur to be ‘two sides of the same coin’.

_Prologue_

“Please, sister, let my parting be my final gift to you.” The stone beneath her back is cold, leeching the warmth from her skin, but she hardly feels it.  And odd sort of calm settles over her as she watches Morgana take up the blade. 

Morgana speaks, carefully reciting the words of the Old Religion that Morgause taught her. “Eala leofu sweoster, paem gastum befaeste ic pe. Alys pa peoster pe inne onwunap.”

A flash of light glints over the edge of the blade as it descends.

Morgause doesn’t feel the knife as it plunges into her chest. Her eyes flutter closed as she breathes out her last breath.

All around her the world goes dark. 

And then there is light, and a voice.  Morgause opens her eyes.  She can still feel the stone alter beneath her back, but the cold is gone.

Above her there is a figure, but it is not Morgana.

“Who… who are you?” She rasps, surprised by the sound of her own voice.

“I am the Cailleach. The gatekeeper to the spirit world.”

Relief floods Morgause.  This is right, _this_ is what Morgause hoped to achieve by giving her life to the spell. “I am ready.” Morgause says.

“Ready?” the Cailleach asks. “Ready for what?”

Morgause feels her mouth form a frown.  “To move to the realm beyond. To see that veil torn asunder and vengeance given form.”

The Cailleach laughs and it is a humorless, merciless sound.  “All will not be as you ask, Morgause.”

“What do you mean?”

Her question is ignored. “Tell me. Do you care for Morgana? Do you care for what awaits her?”

“Of course I do,” Morgause answers fiercely. “Of course.”

“Then it is in you to choose.”

“Choose?” Morgause asks.  She feels breathless, but does not need to breath.

“Yes,” the Cailleach nods, slow and deliberate. “Yes, you will choose the direction that the spell will take. You will choose the fate that awaits her.”

“I don’t understand.  We know what the spell will do.  I know what I’ve given my last breath for.”

“Do you?  Perhaps so, perhaps not.  Before you choose which direction you will go, think on this.” The Cailleach presses a palm over Morgause’s eyes.  “See what awaits her should you make this choice.

Images flash through Morgause’s mind almost too fast for them to follow.  They’re all of Morgana.  Morgana, dressed in tatters and living in a hovel.  Morgana huddled in the dark at the bottom of a pit for endless days. Morgana seated on a granite throne in the frozen north, surrounded by men who leer and scowl and think her weak and mad.  Morgana, on a battlefield, crouched over a body with tears cutting tracks through the dirt that stains her cheeks. Morgana, lifeless in the arms of a serving boy, a sword buried to the hilt in her chest.

“No!” Morgause tries to scream but the works escapes as barely a whisper.  “No, that cannot be. What is this. What have you shown me?”

“Only her future, should you choose it.” 

She tries to shake her head, to protest, but she cannot move.  Her whole body begins to feel leaden. “No.” She whispers. “Please, anything but that. Morgana must live. She must be strong. She must…” she trails off. Words make no sense on her tongue.

“What is it?” the Cailleach teases, taunts. “What is it you want for her?”

But Morgause cannot answer.

“To live?” The Cailleach asks. 

Morgause gives the barest nod.

“Perhaps to know joy and to feel love?”

Another nod. Her time, she knows is almost done.

“It will take more power than you have. It will take some of her power as well, but if you wish it, I can change the thread of her fate.” The Cailleach fixes her with a rictus grin. “Is that what you wish?”

With everything that is left of her very being Morgause screams out, “Yes!”

And then all is dark. 

 ~~~~~~~~~

_There’s a body on the floor of the cell._

_Merlin stares at it._

_Gaius is kneeling next to the body… the man… a man Merlin knows.   He’s trying to understand why this man is dead, even as Gaius speaks._

_He can’t make out the words. They’re garbled and nonsensical.  Around them, others continue the conversation. Percival and Arthur.  None of what they’re saying makes any sense.  It’s all gibberish. Merlin feels panic start to rise._

_“Merlin.”_

_At his name Merlin looks up at the door of the cell.  There’s a shadow there.  A shadow that calls his name._

“Merlin!”

“Gauis?” Merlin blinks muzzily at the figure standing in silhouette in the doorway.

“Yes, Merlin.” Gaius steps into the room and as more light chases away some of the gloom Merlin realizes he’s not in his own room. 

“Did I come back to my old room again?” He looks around, but has trouble taking anything in.   The heavy weight of exhaustion drags at his eyelids and his eyes feel gummy and hot.

“Yes, Merlin.” Gaius repeats as he crosses the short distance from the door to the bed.

“Sorry.”

Gaius lays a hand over Merlin’s shoulder. “It’s no trouble, my boy.  You know that. Another dream again, was it?” he asks gently. “Or another nightmare?” he adds, sitting down on the edge of Merlin’s old bed next to him, though it’s less a question than a statement.  He places a perfunctory palm over Merlin’s forehead almost absently, checking for signs of fever.  They both know he won’t find anything.

Merlin rubs a hand across his face in the wake of Gaius’ after he draws his away. “Yeah. Um, nightmare this time, I think.”

Merlin scrubs at his face, tries to rub the sleep away. Already the images are vanishing from his mind, leaving behind only vague impressions.  He closes his eyes, trying to capture the last lingering remnants against the backs of his eyelids.  He chews at his lower lip, feeling the tug as his mouth tries to frown at the same time. “I remember riding. I think Gwen was there.  And then… something happened.  Something spooked the horses.  Arthur was thrown from his.” He shrugs and opens his eyes. “I think there were bandits, maybe?”

He stretches his arms out and lets out a noisy yawn.  On the heels of it he adds, “I also seem to recall something about Tyr Seward, the Royal stable hand.  Something to do with him and red thread. Which is certainly odd.”

Gaius nods. “That’s certainly an unusual detail. He’s never featured in one of your dreams before.”

“No, he hasn’t. At least not that I remember.” He shrugs wearily.  He can rarely make heads or tails of the things he dreams.  “At least it wasn’t as troubling as some of them have been.  I think…” he trails off a moment, fighting to remember a few more details that are almost as ephemeral as smoke. “I’m fairly certain Arthur was alright. After getting throw from the horse, I mean.  Though I think there was something about his saddle?”  

Gaius is thoughtfully silent, although Merlin knows he won’t be able to get anything more out of the dream than Merlin has. Eventually he just sighs. “It’s been some months since you’ve taken to wandering the castle in your sleep, though.” Gaius comes to the conclusion that Merlin’s already reached. “They’re getting worse again, then.”

Merlin can’t disagree.  

When the dreams first started – precisely on the night of the Samhain celebration four years ago – Merlin had thought they might be prophetic, much like the dreams Morgana had once professed to experiencing.   He’d paid careful attention to them at first, anxious to prevent any of the terrible things he saw from coming to fruition.

Nothing ever did.    

Apparently, despite how vivid and real and un-dreamlike they felt, they were just that: dreams. 

He doesn’t have them every night, and sometimes even when he does, they’re mundane and almost boring – he’d spent enough of his first few years in Camelot polishing Arthur’s boots, he’s not sure why he sometimes dreams that he’s still Arthur’s manservant – like reliving bits of someone else’s life.

Lately though, they’ve gotten intense again.   He doesn’t always wake up from them and although he no longer shares quarters with Gaius, he sleepwalks sometimes.   Tonight isn’t he first that he’s woken up back in his old room, or even sitting at the table in Arthur’s quarters.  Arthur is oddly patient about it when that happens.

Merlin allows himself a few moments of quiet before he responds to Gaius. “If they’re anything like they’ve been in the past, Gaius, they’ll calm down soon enough.” He ducks his head, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry that I woke you.”

Gaius just pats him on the back of the hand. “It’s no trouble, my boy.  It’s almost dawn anyway.” He gives Merlin’s shoulder a squeeze. “Why don’t you stay and have breakfast here.” He nods to the cupboard. “There are still some of your old things in there. You can get changed before Arthur’s council session.”

Merlin weighs the choices: stay and share a friendly meal with Gaius where he’s comfortable or trudge back through the halls in his nightclothes to his cold, empty room and a lonely breakfast.  It’s not a choice at all really. “Thanks, Gaius.  That’d be great.”

Gaius makes porridge with chunks of dried fruit and while it’s plainer fare than Merlin could have had brought up from the kitchens (his position as Arthur’s Court Sorcerer affords him some embarrassing luxuries that he’s still not gotten used to even after nearly two years in the role) it’s far better just for the company.  After dressing in a tunic that only smells a little of the herb sachets that Gaius makes to keep the moths away he joins Gaius at the table where  steaming bowl is ready and waiting.

“Is Lady Morgana being troubled by the dreams again as well?” Gaius asks after they’ve eaten and Merlin clears the dishes away out of habit (Gaius lets him).

Merlin shrugs. “I’m not sure. She didn’t say anything yesterday.  They seem to ebb and tide differently for us, as you know, so it’s possible she’s not bothered by them right now.”

Morgana is the only other person in Camelot (at least as far as Merlin is aware) that also regularly experiences the oddly realistic, seemingly prophetic (albeit not) dreams.  Gaius thinks he’s had a few, and occasionally someone will come to him requesting a tonic to help them sleep better and might mention feeling restless or troubled by odd nightmares.  

“I’m meeting with her again today after the council session,” Merlin adds once he’s got the bowls cleaned and stacked in their usual spot. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

Sometimes, oddly, their dreams intersect.   They dream of the same events, seen from different views.  Morgana is reluctant to talk about them – and won’t with anyone but Merlin or Gaius – because hers tend to be dark and vicious and she fears people would still see her at the woman who betrayed Camelot, rather than the victim of an evil that twisted and controlled her mind if they knew she still, sometimes, dreamt of plotting to kill Arthur or steal the throne for herself.

Merlin has long since suspected that the dreams have something to do with Morgause and perhaps some final magic she cast before she breathed her last.  The timing of it all is certainly suspect.  Merlin had the first dream – nightmare really – the night of the Samhain feast.  He’d woken screaming from visions of terrifying spectres that drained the very life from people, devastating the kingdom with their soul-rending screams and their icy touch of death  

Only a few days later Morgana had returned to Camelot.  She’d come quietly, surrendered without a word, submitted meekly to being thrown in the dungeons and then broke down, begging to confess all. Her story had been almost unbelievable and had Merlin not heard it with his own ears, he’d have been hard pressed to find any truth in it.  

In tearful gasps, and gulping sobs Morgana told them that Morgause was dead, killed by Morgana’s own hand as part of some dark ritual in the darkest hours of the eve of Samhain. That as soon as the last breath left Morgause’s body Morgana suddenly felt as if she’d been woken from a dream of her own.   How the memories she had of committing horrendous acts of dark magic seemed like they must belong to someone else. 

Arthur had listened to her confession, her words of sorrow and regret, and left her in the dungeons for weeks.  He only really relented because of Uther.   Who sought out Morgana at first to get his own answers, and then just to spend time with her.

“Merlin?”

Gaius’ voice breaks into his reverie and he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs of memories.  “I’m fine, Gaius.  Just thinking more about the dreams.  It’s been some time since we’ve tried to understand them. I mean, I know we always talk about it, and make plans to try to figure them out, but—“

“But,” Gaius says before Merlin can, “something always comes up that takes priority. And we never do seem to return to our research.”

Merlin nods, because this is also a conversation they’ve had before. “Yeah.  And now that they’re getting strong again, and I find myself thinking more and more about once again trying to understand them, I’m worried that means something… bad is on the horizon.”

Gaius’ brows draw in, his mouth turning down at the corners. It’s his ‘troubled’ expression. “You’re right, Merlin. I know we’ve decided these dreams aren’t prophetic in nature, but perhaps their mere existence is its own sort of harbinger.”

“Exactly.”

“But we have no idea what might be coming.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Nope. No idea.” He tries for a joke. “Unless we’re due for a shortage of saddle embroidery.”

“Well,” Gaius says after a few moments of silent glowering, “we’ll just have to be on our guard.  And perhaps we should at least make an attempt to get to the bottom of these dreams of yours this time?”

Merlin nods again. “Right. We’ll give that a go.” 

“You’ll talk to Morgana about it later today?”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “I’ll start there. Morgana will probably just as eager to have some answers.”

“Good.  Now, we’d best be on our way to the hall. Arthur’s council meeting is due to start soon.” Gaius takes him by the arm and steers him towards the door. 

He goes along eagerly. He’s looking forward to the council meeting today. He’s spent the last several months working on something that he’s quite proud of, and he’s finally ready to share it with Arthur and the rest of the court.  As he steps out the door, a thought occurs to him. “Oh damn.”

“Merlin.”

“Sorry, Gaius.” Merlin apologizes. “It’s just that I forgot my notes about the census.” He spreads his hands at Gaius’ exasperated sigh. “I didn’t intend to go wandering around the castle in my sleep, Gaius.”

Gaius shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “Well hurry up then, Merlin.  I can make your excuses to Arthur if you’re late.”

Already jogging around corner he throws a quick, “Thanks, Gaius!” over his shoulder.

 ~~~~~~~~~

He makes it to the doors of the great hall just as they’re pushed open.  Gaius catches his eye and when Merlin holds up the sheaf of papers, he gives a quick smile.

Merlin takes his seat at Arthur’s right hand side as the rest of his Knights and the Council of Elders file in and settle around the wide arc of the round table.  He settles the pages on the table and then shifts so that he’s sitting up straighter, spine firm against the back of his chair, trying to keep himself from the temptation of slumping over on an elbow and dozing off.  He also tries, unsuccessfully, to fight off a yawn.

“Tired, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur asks, taunting him just slightly. “Is the business of the Court keeping you from your beauty sleep?”

Merlin rolls his eyes and ignores the jibe. “I’m fine, Sire.” Although he does notice the fact that Arthur’s eyes are more heavily shadowed than usual, the fine lines at their corners more creased, the circles beneath them more pronounced.  As if Arthur had just as restless a night as he did.

Merlin has wondered, now and again, if he and Morgana aren’t the only two who often experience the dreams. He’s generally attributed them to the magic, and Arthur’s never admitted to anything, but there have been times he’s noticed Arthur’s looking especially careworn on a days that coincided with Merlin’s own dream-laden nights. 

Several times, when Merlin’s dreams were stirring enough that he’d gone sleep-wandering through the halls and woken in Arthur’s room (sometimes of his own accord, other times when Arthur had shaken his shoulder or called his name to rouse him) he thought he saw the same wary, haunted restlessness echoed back at him in Arthur’s tired eyes.  But Arthur’s never confided that to him, or Morgana, and Merlin knows he’d deny it if asked.

Still, he keeps a surreptitious eye on Arthur through the meeting, trying to see if he can read anything in Arthur’s expression or manner. Arthur seems attentive, and alert. He asks question of everyone, and nods now and again or murmurs works of protest or agreement. Even more rarely he smiles or lets out a quick chuckle.  Still, sometimes Merlin thinks he sees a flicker of something dark and shadowed cross Arthur's features. He tries to make sense of it, when it happens, of who is speaking and what they're talking of, but can't put together anything cohesive.

“Merlin?”

Startling out of his woolgathering, Merlin realizes that Arthur is staring at him expectantly.  So is every other face around the round table, he realizes when he scans the room.  “Um,” he manages clumsily.  He has no idea what Arthur’s just asked him.

“The census report, Merlin.” Arthur prompts, pressing his mouth into a thin, disapproving line afterward.

“Oh!” It comes back to him then, and he tries not to flush as he retrieves the pages of the report that are stacked neatly in front of him (right where he set them when he took his seat). “Right, um,” he clears his throat, letting his lingering embarrassment get chased away with the noise, and begins to speak with authority. “What I have here are the results of what I hope will be our first annual census of practicing sorcerers and magic users and witches in Camelot and her surrounding lands. Now, please understand, the purpose of this is not to keep tabs on those that have magic, but instead to understand where some of our often overlooked resources can be found in times of need…”

He warms to the topic quickly, speaks with passion and catches what he thinks is the barest nod of pride from Arthur when he concludes.   He can’t help but flush slightly.  He’s proud of the results himself.   He’s long wanted to emphasize the role that magic can play in the Kingdom not just in times of crisis and strife, but in the general, day-to-day functioning of Camelot’s people as well.

There are a few more items on Arthur’s agenda after that, and although Merlin is a bit distracted by his own relief and elation at the support his ideas engendered, he doesn’t miss the fact that Leon reports news of Cenred marshalling forces in the east.  Thinking on his and Gaius’ earlier words about the escalation of his dreams being a harbinger, he makes a mental note to get more information on the situation with Cenred as soon as possible.

After the meeting ends Merlin stands and starts to gather up his pages. He’s due to meet Morgana and doesn’t want to be late. Around him people mill around and chat, and Merlin knows it’s going to be difficult to get out of the room without being draw into conversation by at least one person.   He ducks around the back of his chair and starts to hurry towards the doors.

“Merlin.”

Arthur’s voice stops him. And his is likely the only voice that Merlin would stop for.

He turns, unable to keep the grin from curling into his cheeks. “Yes, Sire?”

Arthur nods to the pages held loosely in Merlin’s grip. “That was well done, Merlin.” He looks a bit abashed at admitting it.

Merlin is equally awkward with receiving the praise. “Um, thanks. I mean, I had lots of help.  You know Gaius and Morgana were really instrumental in developing the fundamentals of—“ He breaks off at Arthur’s upraised hand.

“I know they were, Merlin.  But it was your idea and the way you spoke of it today convinced everyone at this table of its merit.  Even those men that have been calling me a damn fool behind my back since I lifted the ban on sorcery.” He grins as he says it, but Merlin knows there’s more truth than exaggeration in the words.   Two of the Lords that served under Uther had been willing to give up their titles and lands rather than accept the changes.

Merlin feels his cheeks heat, knows that they must be bright as beets, but he doesn’t know what to say. He starts to stammer. 

“Just say thank you, Merlin.” Arthur advises with a fond grin.

Laughing softly and suddenly at ease, Merlin nods and says, “Thank you.”

Arthur’s smile falters just a bit, but he forces it back gamely. “Did you want to discuss it further? I’ve got a bit of free time before I need to be on the practice field…”  He trails off.

“Oh,” Merlin’s own smile falls away.  He wants to stay – partially because he _does_ want to talk more about his ideas, but also because he and Arthur haven’t really done much talking, one-on-one, in a very long time. Unfortunately, he’s got somewhere to be. “Um, I’m sorry, Sire, but I’ve got to meet Morgana. We've been planning for weeks now to get to work on the library.” He flings a hand out in a loose gesture towards the door. “I uh, could send her a message that I’m going to be late.”

Arthur steps back, face shuttered once again, voice cool and level. “No, I won’t keep you, Merlin.”

“Maybe later?” Merlin prompts, already kicking himself for losing out on the opportunity.

The quick, and clearly false, grin flashes across Arthur’s face briefly. “Perhaps.  We’ll see what the day holds, shall we?”

“Of course, Sire.” Merlin agrees, with the same feigned enthusiasm. He already knows that the business of court will keep them both too busy.  “I’ll see you later then.”  Somehow he manages to get out of the room without being cornered by anyone else. 

 ~~~~~~~~~

“Merlin,” Morgana descends upon Merlin the moment he steps through the doors of their shared library, clutching at his arm and dragging him over to the wide square table at the center of it. “There you are. You have to talk to Arthur. You must insist. He won’t speak to me and he denies there’s anything wrong, but I know something is troubling him.”

Merlin lets himself be chivvied into a seat and he waits until Morgana is sat across from him and eyeing him expectantly.

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks, because despite his earlier observations of Arthur during the council session, he hasn’t noticed anything that strikes him as particularly worrisome (or, well, any more worrying than usual). “What’s wrong with Arthur? I just came from the council meeting. He seemed fine.”

Morgana waves that away with a flick of one hand. “Oh, I’m sure he claims to be fine. And I’m sure he’s acting fine. But, Merlin, trust me. He is not fine.”

He resists, just barely, giving in to the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Then what are you worried about, exactly?”

“Merlin, really," she huffs. "You were Arthur’s manservant, and a servant in Camelot, for how many years? Six, seven?  You know that it’s the servants who are sometimes privy to the things that are kept hidden from everyone else.”

Forcing his expression neutral – because what it really wants to do is settle on something between sadness and jealousy and regret at _not_ being privy to the things she refers to – he asks, “And what is it that they’re saying? And why are they saying it to you?”

“Not to me,” Morgana admits. “To Gwen.  Apparently she still keeps up on the castle gossip.”

Which explains how Morgana would be aware of it.  Gwen was one of the first, besides Uther, to forgive Morgana and their friendship has rekindled and is nearly the fierce and uncompromising thing it was before Morgause.  Of course, since Gwen married Lancelot last year and doesn’t work in the castle any longer, it’s different than before. They’re closer to equals.  

“When does she have time to gossip with the servants?” It’s not the question he wants to ask, but he can’t help but wonder.  She may not be a servant any longer, but she refused to give up working entirely.  She reopened her father’s smithy, much to Lancelot’s fond amusement, and Merlin knows it keeps her busy. 

“Oh, she’s finally hired an apprentice.  You know the couple who—“

“Morgana,” Merlin interrupts, because Morgana does like to gossip.  Not that he’s immune to the urge, but he’s got more pressing concerns.

“Right,” she agrees, “Arthur.  Well, talk is that he’s hardly sleeping. Lately there are mornings that his manservant goes to change the bedclothes only to find they’ve not been slept in.  He’s hardly eating as well.  Almost full trays are coming back to the kitchen to be dumped in the scraps for the pigs.”

Merlin’s own stomach clenches at the thought.  The only times that Arthur ever used to skip meals were when something was really troubling him, or when his own people were forced to live lean.  He swallows down a lump of fear forming in his throat. “Do you think he’s ill?”

Morgana shakes her head, though she looks uncertain. “I don’t think so, though perhaps you could ask Gaius to look in on him?”

“I’ll do that.” Merlin nods.  “Anything else?”

“Just that he’s moody and short-tempered even with the servants. I’ve talked to Lancelot and Gwen, and they’ve both noticed it as well.”

Merlin’s tempted to point out that Arthur has been a little off kilter towards Gwen and Lancelot ever since they got married, but what Morgana said just before that stays his tongue.  Arthur is never curt or rude to the castle staff. Not any longer.  “Have any of the other Knights said anything?”

She nods. “Gwaine was complaining that Arthur never joins them at the pub anymore.” She lets out a bit of an unladylike snort. “Normally I’d just ignore that as Gwaine being his usual charming self, but Percival even remarked on it.  And Leon mentioned that he’s been driving himself too hard during training.”  She sighs. “I know he’s lonely, Merlin.  And he has the cares of a Kingdom weighing him down.  But this seems like something more.”

“Will you talk to Arthur, please?” She asks. “After I learned all of this I tried to speak to him about it, but he brushed it all off.  He said that he’s fine. That it’s nothing.” She further leans over the table, looking Merlin in the eye. “But he’ll probably talk to you.” She has this way of looking up through her eyelashes at him that Merlin finds ridiculously disarming (and Morgana knows it, though luckily she only uses this skill sparingly).

“Morgana, you know I don’t have Arthur’s ear like I used to.” Admitting it pains him.   Opposite of what happened with Gwen and Morgana and odd as it seems, since the reveal of his magic and his eventual evolution to his current role in Arthur’s court, he and Arthur aren’t as close as when they were just Servant and Master. There’s an odd barrier between them now; one that Merlin can’t seem to get beyond. 

They work well together, Arthur isn’t afraid to come to him for advice about the kingdom, and he’ll be the first to support Merlin whenever anyone challenges Arthur’s acceptance of magic in Camelot.   But other than that, the slightly off-kilter and occasionally antagonistic camaraderie they’d shared when Arthur was just the Prince and Merlin his manservant has been subsumed by a slightly stilted and occasionally even formal relationship.

Although it’s not just Merlin.  Arthur’s kept everyone at arm’s length in the years since Morgana returned.  Merlin knows some of that is due to the unexpected death of Uther, and some is due to his and Gwen’s (mostly) amicable parting, and much of it probably has to do with everything that’s happened since Morgana came back.  Still, it sounds as if he’s closing himself off even further, which isn’t good.

“You’re still closer to him than anyone, Merlin.” Morgana protests, and Merlin can tell that she tries to hide how much that admission stings.

For her sake he decides not to push on that issue (this time – because he does tend to prod her on working on her own relationship with Arthur regularly).

“I’ll try, Morgana. I really will. But I fear he’ll just tell me the same as he’s told you. That’s he’s just _fine_.” He can’t help the bitter twist to the word.

“Well if he won’t talk to you, then I think you should talk to the Great Dragon.” Morgana suggests.

“Kilgharrah?” Merlin frowns. It’s been ages since he last summoned Kilgharrah to speak with him. 

“Yes,” she nods fervently. “You told me that he used to council you quite a bit in your early years in the castle. Especially as it came to dealing with Arthur. Maybe he could help now?”

It’s true. Kilgharrah did used to advise Merlin. In fact, after Gaius, the dragon was Merlin’s most reliable source (well, perplexing is perhaps a better word for it) of guidance.  It’s almost a shock to think back on how many times he’d snuck down to the cavern below the keep and voiced his fears and his worries and sought after advice no matter how much it frustrated him.

Oddly, the memories of those discussions are almost as indistinct and fuzzy-edged as his memories of the dreams.  “You’re right, Morgana.  I did ask after his advice, quite a lot.” Why hasn’t he done so in recent years?  It’s not as if Arthur hasn’t had challenges to face. 

Morgana’s gaze drops to her fingers that are loosely clasped on the tabletop. “I’ve often wondered if you stopped consulting with him because of me.”  It would startled Merlin just how attuned to his thoughts Morgana is if he didn’t know just how empathetic she can be.

Merlin reaches out to cover her hands with one of his.  He squeezes gently. “No, Morgana, that’s not true.  It’s just…” he trails off with a shrug.

Perhaps it _was_ that, at first, when Morgana showed up with her story about Morgause’s death and the sudden awareness that her mind had not been her own. But too be fair, the whole castle had been thrown into chaos during that time.   Sneaking out of the city to call the dragon just hadn’t been possible during the worst of it.

He knows, especially from the fact that _he_ was named as Arthur’s official Court Sorcerer and _not_ Morgana, that Arthur still has doubts – however miniscule –  over her loyalty.   He can’t blame the King for his reticence.  Morgana _had_ betrayed them all, but she’s redeemed herself since her return.

But Merlin’s lack of communication with Kilgharrah doesn’t stem from anything to do with Morgana, at least he’s fairly sure that’s the case. The problem is that now that he thinks on it, he can’t figure out where it does come from. 

He tries talking it out to Morgana, feeling out his answer even as he gives it.   “I think it’s just that Kilgharrah was so much a part of my early days in Camelot, before Arthur knew about my magic.  Now that it’s no longer a secret, I guess I haven’t needed to go to him.”  It makes sense, at least a little bit, but it still doesn’t feel like enough of an explanation, enough of a reason. 

The truth, now that he really thinks about it, is that he just hasn’t considered Kilgharrah in quite some time.  The dragon used to be one of the first resources he would call to mind whenever anything especially troubling or challenging arose.  In the last two years though, his thoughts have gone to Arthur or Gaius or Morgana.

Actually, until Morganna mentioned him, he’d not thought of Kilgharrah in months.   And he knows that as the last Dragonlord, there’s something quite wrong with that.

Now that the seed has been planted, and quickly fertilized by his alarmed imagination, it blossoms into a plan of action almost immediately. “Alright, Morgana, I’ll seek out Kilgharrah and ask his advice about Arthur.” He doesn’t add that he’s going to see if the dragon can shed any light on the other concerns that trouble him.

He pushes away from the table and stands.

“You’re going right now?” She asks, although she doesn’t sound like she disapproves.

“Yeah.  Oh.” He belatedly remembers their plans. “Um, if you don’t mind that is.” He looks over her shoulder at the back corner of the room where piles of books are stacked on the floor and spilling over every available surface haphazardly. 

They’d planned to put some – much needed – time into organizing the space. Arthur wanted them to have a place in the castle where they could study and practice magic and store the kinds of items that should probably be kept out of the hands of the general populace.  This long disused library off the east wing was his suggestion.   They’ve been using it for months, but the clutter – from gathered tomes and artifacts and all sorts of magical paraphernalia – is starting to pile up.  Gaius just tuts and frowns whenever he comes in to see them (which amuses Merlin to no end considering the organized chaos of his own quarters).  They’d finally agreed to dedicate an entire afternoon to cleaning.

Morgana frowns at him, albeit prettily and with little actual disappointment in it. “I should probably have waited to ask you about Arthur until we made a dent in the book pile, shouldn’t I?”  She lifts her shoulders in a loose shrug. “Never mind that, Merlin. The room can wait.”

“Thanks, Morgana.”

She smiles even as she waves him toward the door with a shooing hand.  “Just go on. Figure out what’s going on with my brother.”

“I will.” He promises.

 ~~~~~~~~~

Merlin is long past the days of needing to sneak out of the castle to go and summon Kilgharrah; although he won’t be comfortable just doing so without the King’s permission. Still, he feels a knot of apprehension start to tangle in his stomach as he makes his way to the practice field to find Arthur.  He worries that Arthur might find some reason to object to his going to see the dragon.  

When the truth of Merlin’s magic had come out Merlin had told Arthur _everything._ He’d described, in detail, every single instance he could remember ever having used magic as it related to Arthur or to Camelot.  Arthur had been mystified by some of it, amused and appalled and awed in turns at much more, but the worst was his reaction to Merlin’s admission that _he’d_ been the one to free Kilgharrah.  There’d been a moment that Merlin thought they might never get past, when Arthur had looked at him with something akin to disgust.  Like every single negative feeling he’d ever had towards sorcerers and magic had just been proved right in the actions of someone he’d trusted.

Luckily, he’d held off his judgement and listened to Merlin talk of Dragonlords and the death of his father and about Kilgharrah's motives. And he accepted it all. Perhaps grudgingly and with a bit of reluctance, but even that, Arthur had been willing to forgive. 

At least of Merlin. What his thoughts are about Kilgharrah himself is anyone's guess.

The morning’s training is still ongoing when Merlin makes his way out of the Castle and onto the grounds. He finds Arthur just where he expected him to be: on the practice field.  He’s sparring with Gwaine so Merlin takes a seat on the low bench against the walls to watch and wait. 

With the new knowledge that Morgana’s given him, and his own earlier thoughts about how weary Arthur looked, he keeps a close eye on the combat.  Arthur’s certainly in fine form, but there’s an edge to his fighting that Merlin’s not used to seeing.  At least not during practice. It looks more like he’s engaged in genuine combat with a real enemy.  He’s aggressive and quick and if it weren’t for the fact that Gwaine is especially well-matched against him, he suspects this fight would have ended much sooner.  

As it is, Merlin’s starting to think he might need to intervene.  The playful mocking and teasing jeers of the observing Knights start to taper off, and soon they’re all silent. The only sounds that punctuate the silence are the sharp clang of sword against sword and the low, breathy grunts of the combatants.  Gwaine’s helm gets knocked from his head, and instead of lifting a hand to halt the combat, Arthur just reaches up to yank his own helm off and tosses it away. They start brawling as much as they're sword-fighting.  Gwaine's nose gets bloodied and Merlin sees a patch of red on Arthur's hand that might be Gwaine's or could be from a wound of his own.

Merlin sees Percival lever himself up from where he’d been sitting in the grass, laughing with Leon.  He gives Leon a hand up and though Merlin isn’t close enough to hear their low-voiced conversation, he knows the subject by the way they keep looking over at Arthur and Gwaine with growing concern.  Elyan and Lancelot, who were working with some of the younger guardsmen on the other end of the courtyard, have even given off what they’re doing and are slowly heading over.   All of them look like they’re just moments from stopping the fight, which won’t go well for anyone involved.

That’s it. Time for Merlin to step in.  He knows just how to play this to ensure that Arthur and Gwaine come away unharmed, and still save face.

He stands and strides across the field.  When he’s just a few yards away from Arthur and Gwaine, who are still circling each other and lashing out with vicious, forceful strikes, he lifts a hand and holds it out.  At a word the ground beneath their feet judders, pebbles and rocks dancing on its’ suddenly shaking surface.

Arthur and Gwaine, barely keeping their feet, turn towards him as one.  He can see the surprise on Arthur’s face quickly morph to anger and then something else cool and calculating.  With an elbow and a quick nod to Gwaine they approach Merlin warily.  Neither man is carrying a shield – they were both discarded some time earlier in their combat – but Gwaine has his sword held high at guard in front of him and he starts to move around Merlin’s right side, while Arthur swings his sword menacingly and approaches from the right.

He knows what they’re doing – he’s trained with the men numerous times to teach them how combat with a sorcerer differs from doing battle with another Knight. Arthur is the distraction, meant to keep Merlin’s eyes on him and the threat of his sword.  Gwaine is the real threat though. He’ll try to flank Merlin, and get close enough to knock him out.

Merlin could easily dispatch them both, but he knows that’s because he’s rather powerful.  A less skilled magic user would likely already have tried his most powerful spell while the Knights were distracted, and with the element of surprise gone, he might start to panic. 

Since it’s what’s expected of him, Merlin turns to Arthur and shoves out force with a hand.  The rush of magic pushes Arthur flying back (although Merlin holds back his power considerably – and he ‘catches’ Arthur before he hits the ground, and lets him land gently). While Arthur scrambles to his feet Merlin turns to face off against Gwaine and finds him standing just a swords’ length away. He knows that’s how far it is because Gwaine has his swordarm outstretched, the blade leveled at Merlin’s heart.

Laughing, Merlin slowly holds up both hands.

“Do you yield, foul fiend?” Gwaine taunts.

“Foul fiend?” Merlin repeats, rolling his eyes.  Gwaine just pokes at Merlin with the tip of the sword. “Fine,” Merlin huffs. “Fine, I yield.”

The spectators applaud and when Merlin looks over to Arthur he sees that he’s already up and walking over. “A good lesson,” Arthur calls out loudly, “from our esteemed Court Sorcerer.” He flashes Merlin a sideways grin.  Merlin is ridiculously pleased to see that it looks genuine, albeit just a bit mocking.  “Always be aware of your surroundings. You never know when you’ll be set upon by,” he looks to Gwaine, raising an inquisitive brow. “What was it again, Sir Gwaine?”

“Foul fiends, Sire.” Gwaine replies with an absolutely unrepentant grin.

“Right.” Arthur snorts and then makes a broad gesture to the men. “Let that be a lesson to you.”  He claps Gwaine on the shoulder and Merlin knows there’s an apology in the gesture.

Gwaine just gives a quick, acknowledging nod in response.

That seems to signal an end to training for the day and Merlin trails after Arthur as he makes his way off the field.  When he passes by Leon and Percival he gets pulled aside.

“That was well done, Merlin.” Leon tells him in a low voice, keeping his eye on Arthur as he hands over his sword and helm to his squire.

“Yeah,” Percival agrees. “Don’t know what got into Arthur, but he looked like he was out for blood.”

Leon follows that up with, “I don’t suppose you have any idea what’s going on with him, do you? This isn’t the first time in the last few weeks that he’s gotten like this.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I don’t. Though I wish I did. I’m actually going to talk to him about it right now.”

Leon and Percival exchange a look. “Good luck with that, Merlin.” Percival says, grim but sincere.

“Yes. Let us know if we can do anything to help.” Leon adds.

“I will.” Merlin agrees.

He leaves them and rejoins Arthur who is wiping down his flushed and glistening face and neck with a cloth. “Sire, do you have a moment.”

Arthur pauses with an elbow in the air as he tries to scrub the towel down the very middle of his back. He’s never able to reach that part under the chain and padded gambeson. Merlin glances over at George, Arthur’s current manservant, and frowns. He’s standing stiffly as if awaiting instructions, but making no move to help Arthur.

“Here,” Merlin says, tugging the cloth from Arthur’s grip. “Let me. You can never get that part while you’ve still got the chain on.” 

Arthur actually looks a bit embarrassed to have Merlin wiping the cooling sweat from the back of his neck, which seems weird because when Merlin was still his manservant he’d have thought nothing of this. 

Merlin can see the battle waging in Arthur’s eyes. He wants to snap or pull away, but knows that either is too much of a reaction.  Finally he just sighs and drops his chin to his chest so that Merlin can reach further down the knobs of his spine. “Aren’t you supposed to be locked away in your library with Morgana?” he grumbles out.

“Well, I was,” Merlin explains, “but then something came up.” He pauses for a moment, gives a final swipe of the cloth just at Arthur’s hairline and then tosses the damp thing to George. He takes Arthur’s arm and pulls him a few feet away. “Arthur, I need to ask a favor.”

There’s color high on Arthur’s cheeks and just the tips of his ears are reddened, but he looks over to meet Merlin’s gaze unflinchingly. “What is it?”

Merlin takes a deep breath. “I need to speak to the Great Dragon.”

Arthur takes a half-step back. His brows drop inward as his eyes narrow. “What for?”

“I need to ask him about something.”

Arthur’s voice carries just a hint of suspicion.  “What about?”

He was afraid that Arthur would want to know.  He doesn’t lie to Arthur any longer. Not about anything.  But that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of telling a few half-truths. “You know the dreams I have,” he says in a voice pitched for Arthur’s ears alone. “When I sometimes wander the halls in my sleep?” He doesn’t have to mention the times he wakes up in Arthur’s room.

“Of course.”

“They’re getting worse again,” Merlin tells him. Which is true. “And, I want to try to understand why.  Gaius and I have never been able to discover what they even mean, if anything. So, I’d like to ask Kilgharrah about them.”

He’s expecting Arthur to protest because of his reticence over the mention of Kilgharrah.  So he’s quite surprised when Arthur gives an immediate and fervent nod of approval. “Very well, Merlin."

Which lends even more credence to the theory the Merlin and Morgana aren’t the only ones troubled by the dreams.

And then Arthur adds, “I’ll go with you.”

Merlin blinks and opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.  Arthur’s ready agreement is surprise enough; Arthur wanting to go with him to see Kilgharrah is something else entirely.

After a moment’s gawping he finally manages to ask, “You want to come with me?  To speak to the Great Dragon?”

Arthur gives another curt nod. “Yes. I do.  In fact,” he says, drawing away from Merlin before Merlin has a chance to protest. “George!” Arthur waves him over.

George hurries over, bowing his head briefly when he stops an appropriate two body-lengths away. “Yes, My Lord.” 

A brief frown flicks across Arthur’s face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. “George, I need you to go the stables and have them ready two horses. One of mine and Merlin’s.  And then get our travel packs ready.”

George nods dutifully. “Do you want me to accompany you, My Lord?” His expression sours just slightly.  George, Merlin knows, is not fond of the outdoors.  He’s a perfect toadying lackey when it comes to all aspects of looking after a member of the court, but when it comes to being Arthur’s general dogsbody, no one has replaced Merlin. 

“No,” Arthur immediately dismisses. “And I won’t be needing my Squire either.”

Since George is rather useless at anything outdoorsy, Arthur’s also got a Squire that tends him when he’s away from Camelot and during tournaments.  Sometimes Merlin still feels a little smug that it takes two people to the duties he uses to manage (and, on top of that, still somehow find the time to save Arthur and Camelot on a regular basis).

He’s feeling rather smug about it just now, until he realizes that Arthur means for them to leave Camelot, together, right away. “Uh, Arthur?” He begins once George has hustled away to follow Arthur’s instructions. “You know we really don’t need to go to all that trouble.” He waves in the direction that George just headed. “I mean, I can summon Kilgharrah to me from anywhere.” He feels a bit guilty for not mentioning that earlier.

But Arthur just nods. “I know that, Merlin.  But I’d rather you didn’t call for him too close to Camelot, or too near any of the outlying villages.  I don’t want to get reports of panicked flocks or terrified villagers.” He sniffs almost derisively.

Merlin knows that he could probably just explain to Arthur that all they really need to do is wait until nightfall and then head to the clearing that’s not far outside the city’s walls. He stops himself though, because it’s been months, closer to years, since he’s gotten the chance to leave the city, just him and Arthur.   He wonders, perhaps just a little wildly, if Arthur’s feeling the same?

Still, he wants to confirm. “And we’re going now? I mean, it’s just that it’s already afternoon and if we leave now we might not be back before nightfall…” He lets the protest trail off at Arthur’s expression.  It’s oddly intense.

“Yes, Merlin. We’re going now. If it means a night in the woods, well it won’t be the first.” He starts to say something else and then seems to think better on it. He turns away, gaze going distant.   Merlin sees his throat work against a hard swallow, as if he’s swallowing down whatever it was he almost said.   A long moment passes before Arthur’s eyes shift over to him again. “You’re my Court Sorcerer, Merlin.  You’re a vital part of my court and council.  And if something’s disturbing you, we need to get to the bottom of it.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to say to that. “Oh.” Is probably not the best response. “Um, well, thanks.”  Again, not the most heartfelt follow-up, but he’s still a bit dumbfounded.  Because if that’s what Arthur was willing to say aloud, what must he have stopped himself from letting out?

Deciding that they can probably both use a moment Merlin gestures with a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just go get some things.”

Arthur waves him away. “Right. Meet me at the north gate when you’re ready. I’ll need to leave instructions with Leon.”

Merlin hurries away without looking back.   There’s just something about all this that feels strange.  Maybe he’s just gotten complacent in his role. He’d sworn to himself, when Arthur offered him the position, that he wouldn’t let it go to his head. That he’d still just be regular old Merlin no matter what. He likes to think he’s kept true to that.  But, as he considers it while also considering what he might need to pack for a day trip to the woods with Arthur, he realizes that part of what defined ‘regular old Merlin’ was Arthur.  

Not that things have always been easy.  Far from it. It took almost a year after she came back to them before Arthur would let himself listen to Morgana with anything but distrust and suspicion.  If she hadn’t nearly killed herself trying to save Uther’s life after an assassination attempt gone wrong (they’d wanted to kill Arthur, but Uther had gotten in the way) Merlin doesn’t know if Arthur would ever have let himself believe that their Morgana had returned.

And that was also when Merlin’s magic was revealed. He’d been left with no choice. Morgana had tried to save Uther with her magic, but after Morgause, it just wasn’t as strong as it had been.  Morgana and Uther were dying and Merlin knew he could save them. So he took the risk, saved them both, and outed himself to Arthur. 

And Arthur had, Merlin thinks, surprised them both with just how accepting he was of.  That's not to say he wasn't angry for a time, and mistrustful (especially on the heels of everything to do with Morgana).  Merlin has never know if it was the fact that he saved Uther's life, or the depth of their friendship that made it so easy for Arthur to forgive him the years of lies. He likes to think it was the latter (sometimes he's absolutely sure of it).

~~~~~~~~~

Merlin arrives at the north gate to see Arthur already astride his favorite bay gelding, Regal.  Saddled and waiting next to him is Merlin’s own mount.  There’s a bedroll tucked and strapped behind the cantle along with a pair of bulging packs hanging to either side.  Apparently George made sure they’ll be well equipped should they need to make camp instead of riding back later.

The horses are restless, picking up their hooves and swishing their tails and flicking their ears back and forth.  Occasionally Rosehip, Merlin’s dark bay mare will reach over to lip at Regal’s cheek and he’ll toss his head and jangle his bridle.   Arthur pats at Regal’s neck, soothing him, while a groom tries to keep Rosehip steady.  It occurs to Merlin that just as he and Arthur haven’t been out of the Castle, just the two of them, in an age, neither have their horses.  In fact, Merlin hasn’t been in the saddle once in the past few months.    

It’ll be good for the horse, at least.  Merlin’s not looking forward to how sore he’ll be tomorrow.

“Sorry I’m late.” He says as he reaches them and swings into the saddle. 

“It’s fine, Merlin.” Arthur looks back, waiting until Merlin is settled before tapping his heels to Regal’s barrel and urging his mount forward.

Merlin kicks gently at Rosehip and she picks up her hooves immediately, setting off at a bone-jangling trot. 

Arthur gets some distance on him but Merlin waits until they’re well beyond the Castle gates before chivvying Rosehip into a faster gait to catch him up.  They come abreast of Arthur and Regal and he draws on the reins, settling the pace at a much smoother – and easier to sit - canter.

Arthur looks over at him and barks out a laugh. “Been awhile, Merlin? I’ve not seen you that stiff in the saddle since you first came to Camelot.”

Merlin grimaces. “Unfortunately I’ve not had much of an opportunity to go riding in a few weeks.” He winces as Rosehip gives a little buck of her heels mid-stride that nearly jostles him from the saddle. “Perhaps a few months,” he amends after righting his seat.

“And your horse knows it.” Arthur points out, head thrown back in laughter.  Barely five minutes out of the castle and he already looks free and less weighed down by the cares of his Kingdom.

Maybe this is all that Arthur needs? Merlin muses.  A bit of a break from responsibility. 

In that case, Merlin is glad that Arthur insisted that he wait to summon Kilgharrah until they’re well away from populated lands.  He even hopes that they _do_ end up having stay the night in the woods.  Merlin’s gotten far too used to his over-large bed and down-stuffed mattress.  A night roughing it will be good for them both.

“C’mon,” Arthur urges, “let’s give these two their head. Let them out run their fractiousness.” He waves an arm at the rolling grassy hills and dales that sprawl out before them.

Which means Arthur wants to race.  Merlin pretends to hem and haw about it for a moment and then, just when it looks like Arthur’s going to withdraw the suggestion, he kicks at Rosehip’s sides and shouts out, “Race you!”

From behind he hears Arthur swear and then the rumble of Regal’s hooves, thundering on the dirt.

Arthur claims to win, when they finally slow the horses.  

“How do you figure?” Merlin pants. He’s surprised at his own exertion from just holding tight to the saddle.

Arthur looks much less affected, although his hair is wind-tousled and his cheeks pink from the wind. “Regal was in the lead when we passed that tree.” He points to a gnarly, bare oak that stands out from the surrounding copse of younger, green saplings.

“And when did we decide that was our end marker?”

“I said as much.”

Merlin frowns.  “When?”

Arthur thumbs over his shoulder. “Before you were so quick to try and cheat. You’d have heard me if you hadn’t.” His grin is wide and full of laughter.

“Me, cheating?” Merlin snorts noisily. “At least I’m not making up the rules as I go.”

Arthur’s smile doesn’t exactly fall away, but it does soften into something quieter and more intimate. “Oh you’ve certainly been doing that for a very long time, Merlin.”

Before Merlin can even ask what the hell that means, Arthur’s reining Regal around a partially exposed boulder and angling away from him.  Somehow, after that, Arthur seems to find the worst terrain for them to cross and Merlin’s too busy skirting his mount around fallen trees and up steep inclines that require him to cling tight to the pommel and ducking the branches that seem to come flinging back at him despite how Arthur claims he ‘won’t let go’, to pick up the conversation.

Arthur finally calls a halt just as the sun is starting to sink low in the sky.  Along the opposite horizon a heavy-bellied gibbous moon hangs low in the rapidly dimming blue.  They’re in a low valley that’s surrounded on three sides by forest, and hemmed in on the fourth by a narrow ribbon of a stream.  There’s enough room for Kilgharrah to land, which was really Merlin’s only concern about wherever they ended up.

“Will this do?” Arthur asks, even as he’s already dismounting.

“Yeah,” Merlin confirms.  His own trip down from the saddle takes a bit longer than usual and he has to keep a firm hold of the pommel for a few minutes just to get his legs steady under him.  They’re going to be aching in the morning, no question.

Arthur comes over and takes Rosehip’s reins. “Why don’t I take care of the horses while you,” he gestures loosely at the sky. “Uh, call the dragon.”

Merlin nods. “Yeah, that’ll be great.”  He waits until Arthur’s led their mounts near to the treeline before he looks up to the heavens.  Despite how long it’s been, the words come on instinct. “O drakon de ge dei s'eikein kai emois!”

Merlin keeps an eye on the sky.  Depending on how far Kilgharrah is, it may take him some time to respond ot the call. He looks around, spots a small drumlin that will afford him good view all around and climbs up the gentle slope to the top where he lowers himself – gently, his thighs are already protesting – to the ground.

Arthur rejoins him after a few minutes. “Horses are tied,” he says, climbing the steeper side of the spoon-shaped hill through the calf-high grass.  He reaches Merlin’s side and settles down into onto the slight hummock next to him. “I don’t want the dragon to spook them.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Arthur’s quiet a moment, scanning the sky, and then he asks, “So, that’s how you call a dragon?” He makes a considering sort of ‘hrmm’. “Sounded a bit gibberish to me.”

Merlin chuffs out a laugh. “Yes, well, the Dragon tongue isn’t exactly the most musical of speech.”

“Will I be able to understand him?” Arthur asks. “The dragon I mean?”

“Yeah,” Merlin nods. “The dragon’s language is just what I use to uh… command him. But he can speak our language.” He snorts. “Not that he always makes sense when he does.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow.

Merlin sees it for the question it is. “It’s just, if he’s really cryptic, try to understand that he’s not doing it deliberately. I mean, well, he is doing it deliberately but that’s just how he is. It’s not directed at you, personally.  Honestly, sometimes I just want to command him to speak clearly.” Merlin admits.

“Why don’t you?” Arthur sounds genuinely curious.

Merlin hesitates.  There’s quite a lot to it and he’s not sure Arthur will understand if he explains the nature of his friendship with Kilgharrah. “I know this may seem a bit weird, but Kilgharrah is my friend.” Arthur grimaces slightly, but indicates Merlin should go on. “It would be like… like me using magic on you, to force you to do what I want.” He can’t help but shudder. “It would be wrong.”

“Aren’t you commanding him when you call him here though?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head slightly. “It’s more like I’m asking or inviting him to come.  It’s, well, all in the intent.” He looks away, realizing that he’s been staring at Arthur and not watching the sky. “I haven’t really ordered Kilgharrah to do anything since I sent him away from Camelot.”

He hears Arthur sigh. “I don’t know if I can forget that, Merlin.  I mean, when he shows up here.  All I keep thinking about is that this is the creature that attacked Camelot and killed so many of my men—“

Merlin flicks his gaze down to Arthur’s face when he stops so abruptly.   Arthur’s staring at a point in the distance and Merlin turns to follow his line of sight.

Sure enough, there’s a dark, winged shape flying low against the blackening cerulean.  Merlin stands and feels Arthur do the same.  They watch, side by side, as Kilgharrah rapidly closes the distance and circles once over their heads before landing heavily in the clearing.

“Well, young warlock,” Kilgharrah’s voice is a familiar rumble that Merlin feels in his bones.  The connection between dragon and Dragonlord resestablishing itself after so long. “Finally you call.”

Merlin ducks his head, sheepish and guilty all at once. “I am sorry, Kilgharrah. I know it’s been… well, it’s been a very long time.  It’s just…” How does he explain everything that’s been going on that’s kept him away.

“You need not explain yourself to me, young warlock.  I know very well the reasons for your absence.”

“You do?” That’s from Arthur. Merlin looks sideward to see him staring up at the dragon warily.

“Ahh,” Kilgharrah lowers his head, bringing it close to Arthur. “Prince Arthur.”

“King, actually.” Arthur corrects automatically.

Merlin winces. He can already tell that Kilgharrah is feeling as fractious as their horses had been.  “Of course,” Kilgharrah concedes with a slight dip of his massive head in acknowledgement. “Well, you’ll beg pardon if I don’t lament the act that made it so.”

To Arthur’s credit it takes him only a few seconds to work out just what Kilgharrah meant by that. “That’s my father you’re talking about, dragon!”

“Yes,” Kilgharrah agrees, his tone as gravelly as a rockslide and just as dangerous. “And the man who murdered all of my kind and then kept me prisoner beneath Camelot for twenty years.”

Arthur surges forward a step, well within range of Kilgharrah claws. “This coming from the beast that took his revenge on the innocent men, women and children of Camelot!”

“My vengeance was righteous.  My kin were no less innocent, son of Uther.  And they were slaughtered—“

“Stop!” Merlin shouts, pushing past Arthur to put himself between King and Dragon.  “Stop this before I _make_ you.” Behind him he hears Arthur draw breath, and he whirls to face him. “ _Both_ of you.”

Arthur stares into his eyes for a long moment. Merlin doesn’t know what he sees there that finally makes him nod and step back, but that’s what he does.

He turns back to Kilgharrah, whose head is canted to the side and is studying him through narrowed eyes.  “I know you’re angry with me for not having called on you in so long, and in truth, Kilgharrah, I do not know why that is.  But do not take your pique with me out on Arthur. This is…” he flails somewhat helplessly. “This is the first time you’re meeting him and after all that you’ve told me about mine and Arthur’s destiny I thought…  well, I thought you’d be happy.” 

He slumps wearily with the sudden weight of it all.  

One of Arthur’s hands settles on his shoulder and surprisingly that seems to ease the pressure rather than add to it. “Sorry, Merlin.” Arthur says softly.

Merlin doesn’t acknowledge that out loud, but he reaches up to cover Arthur’s hand with his own and gives it a brief squeeze.  He lets his hand drop to his side, but Arthur doesn’t.  Merlin feels no urge to shrug Arthur’s away.

Kilgharrah stares at him, at the both of them, for a long while.  Then he exhales a warm gust of breath that smells of smoke and ash and, oddly, fish and inclines his head. “You’re correct, young warlock.  This is a momentous occasion and one that does not deserve to be sullied by old grudges better left in the past.”

There’s something about the way he says that, something that feels like there’s a lot more he’s _not_ saying, that prompts Merlin to ask, “But?”

Unsurprisingly, Merlin’s question is ignored. “Now, young warlock, what is it that finally brought me to mind and required you to call on me?”

Because it’s easier, at least for now, Merlin lets whatever the dragon’s left unspoken stay that way. “There are two things I need to ask you about, old friend.”

“Two?” he hears from Arthur. 

He ignores that for now as well.  It’ll be made clear to Arthur soon enough.

Kilgharrah dips his head again, inviting Merlin’s questions.

“I don’t know how much you know of what’s happened in Camelot since… well, in the last few years really.  But you see, I’ve been having these dreams.  Except they’re not always like dreams. They don’t feel like regular dreams.  But it’s not prophecy either, because nothing in them has really ever come true.” He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug (not the one under Arthur’s hand). “Well, not really. A few times events have been similar, but never exact.”

“So you wish to know the truth of these dreams, as you call them?” Kilgharrah asks.

“Yes.”

Instead of answering, Kilgharrah asks another question. “And the second item? The second reason you wished to speak to me?”

“Uh.” Merlin swallows. He’s desperately glad that he can’t see Arthur’s face. “Well, the second was about Arthur.” The fingers tighten on his shoulder.

“What about me?” Arthur asks sharply.

He answers the question, but directs his words to Kilgharrah. “He’s been especially troubled lately, but won’t confide in me, or in anyone else. I wanted to know if there was something specific going on that I should be worried about.”

“Merlin!” Arthur uses his hold on Merlin’s shoulder to spin him around. 

Cringing, Merlin lets himself be turned.  The look on Arthur’s face comes as no surprise. He’s scowling, but his brows are draw inward in puzzlement as well. “What the hell, Merlin?”

“You wouldn’t have talked to me, Arthur.  And you won’t talk to anyone else.  I needed to know if there was something going on.”

Arthur lets out a noisy breath. "You should've asked me, Merlin."

“So you could tell me that you were fine, just as you told Morgana?”

Arthur pulls his hand back finally, and pushes his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Merlin, I _am_ fine.”

“But you’re _not_ fine, Arthur! I know you’re not. I saw you today—”

Merlin would say more, but he’s interrupted by the low rumble of Kilgharrah laughter as it vibrates through the very earth beneath their feet.   He turns around once again, to face Kilgharrah. “What’s so funny?”

“Only that your two questions are actually one and the same.”

“What?” Merlin frowns. He repeats the words in his mind.  Tries to make sense of them. When it finally becomes clear he whirls back around to face Arthur with an accusation. “You’ve been having the dreams too! Why did you never say? Why did you never tell me?”

Arthur doesn’t admit it, but Merlin knows he’s right by the way Arthur won’t meet his eyes.

“How long?” he asks.

“They started the same night yours did.”

The weight is back, pressing down on Merlin’s neck, squeezing his lungs. “That long?” he cries out.  He hates that Arthur didn’t tell him. That Arthur didn’t confide in him.

From behind him Kilgharrah asks. “And what night was that, young King?”

“The eve of Samhain, four years ago.” Arthur answers him directly, looking past Merlin.

“What else occurred that night, young warlock?”

Feeling dizzy with as much as he’s been spun in circles, Merlin turns again, but moves away from both of them, stepping back a few paces so that he can look from one to the other with little more than a glance. 

“That was the night that Morgause was killed.” Kilgharrah’s nod invites him to keep going. “According to Morganna since she was dying already they’d planned to cast a spell using Morgause’s death for the power it would give them.  They intended to tear a rent in the fabric between the world of the living and the realm of death.  Morgana does not know what happened.”

He swallows around the next part. It’s always hard for him to talk about the things that Morgana did while under Morgause’s influence. “She spoke the words of the Old Religion and stabbed Morgause through the heart.   She doesn’t know why the spell didn’t work.  And she woke as if waking up from a dream and had no idea why she’d done the things she did. Why she’d turned on any of us.”

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah says and there’s a note of regret in the deep bass.  “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps the spell worked?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I mean, it didn’t.  There was no tear between the worlds.”

Kilgharrah lifts his head and stares down at Merlin imperiously. “Perhaps not _that_ spell, the spell they intended, but another one instead.”

“What kind of spell,” Arthur questions warily.  He sounds concerned, but not at all surprised.  Merlin is starting to wonder what, exactly, Arthur has been dreaming about.

“A spell,” Kilgharrah intones in a voice that carries the weight of ages, “that has changed your very destiny.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... between updates per my beta's suggestions (seriously, this thing grew like 40% thanks to her - fantastic - insistence) and being swamped by work (I'm in an industry where the letters 'FDA' put the fear of God into the whole company... and it means long hours and crazy days) - I'm quite late getting finished with this. Sorry again, weis07! I can only hope the last 2 chapters (yes... 2 - did I mention how insistent my beta was?) make you smile and are worth the wait. I've also done tons of editing on this since the last beta-read, so remaining mistakes are definitely my own.

_“A spell,” Kilgharrah intones in a voice that carries the weight of ages, “that has changed your very destiny.”_

“Changed my destiny?” Merlin asks, “How?”

Kilgharrah’s head swings from side to side ruefully. “Oh, no. Not just _your_ destiny, Merlin. But that of the young King as well.” They both look to Arthur.

He just shrugs somewhat helplessly.

“Do you remember once, young warlock, when I said that you and Arthur Pendragon were fated? Meant to be forever linked, halves that make each other whole?”

The works spark something in Merlin.  It’s a bit like when he’s using the Dragon magic – he feels it in his very being. “Yes,” he nods. “Of course. Of course I remember that.” How could he forget? They were words that changed his entire life.

“You’ve heard those same words since, haven’t you?” Kilgharrah’s scaled brow lifts pointedly.

“You have?” Arthur asks, squinting at him.

Merlin nods, a bit sheepishly. “Yes, from my mother.  She said we were two sides of the same coins. And Gaius has said similar things.  As have the druids.”

Arthur is staring at him with his own brows pulled in speculatively. Not that Merlin blames him for not following along.  During all their talk over the past few years about his magic, of which there has been much, he’s never quite explained the way things have been preordained.

The dragon inclines his head knowingly. “Yes, and I’d suspect others have remarked on it without your even realizing.”

Merlin nods again, because he knows that there have been times that he’s deliberately not wanted to understand when people suggested just how tied together his and Arthur’s lives are. 

“Think hard on this, Merlin,” Kilgharrah urges. “When was the last time anyone said such things to you? When was the last time anyone spoke of the lives of you and Arthur being entwined?”

He does as Kilgharrah asks and gives himself a few minutes to think about it. He chases the recent memories around in his head but every time he thinks on himself and Arthur, and how others refer to them and seem to see them, nothing recently significant comes to mind.  They are a King and his advisor.  Lately that’s even come before their friendship. When he’s asked to intercede with Arthur on behalf of someone, it’s because he’s on the council and Arthur trusts his advice, not because he’s Arthur’s friend. Their prior bond, his influence on Arthur as someone beyond just an important position in the court, is never prevailed upon.  No one has mentioned the pair of them as anything more... not that he can recall since the night the dreams started.

He looks up at Kilgharrah in alarm. “It’s broken, isn’t it?” He asks, because for the first time in nearly four years he understands that hollow feeling in his chest that he’s never been able to put a name to. “The bond between us. Something’s happened to it?”

Kilgharrah sighs and give a solemn nod. “Yes, Merlin.  Your fate is no longer tied to that of the young King.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur interjects, “but I’m not following.  You’re saying that Merlin and I were…” he reaches out to grasp at empty air as if trying to pull the right words from it. “That we’ve shared some kind of link?”

“Your lives were predestined, young  Pendragon.  You and Merlin were meant to bring about the time of Albion. To unite this Kingdom in peace and harmony.  Arthur, _you_ are the Once and Future King who will unite the land of Albion.  But it cannot be done by you alone.  You _need_ Merlin. Without him you will never succeed. Without him, there will be no Albion.”

Merlin speaks up before Arthur can respond. “But I don’t understand, Kilgharrah. We have brought about peace.  Magic is no longer outlawed in Camelot. The time of Albion is upon us.”

“Oh, Merlin.” Kilgharrah’s tone goes soft and almost regretful. “You think _this_ is the time I spoke of?  Such a grand fate was not for Camelot alone.  Your small Kingdom stands at peace right now, but even as we converse here, other’s plot for Camelot’s demise.  The fact that magic is now allowed in Camelot has driven friends away from Camelot, made enemies where none existed before.  This thing you call peace is just a brief respite from the coming strife.” He swishes and then slaps his tail down on the ground, suddenly, demonstrative. “You and Arthur must be united, must share that bond again, if you hope to live beyond these days and see your future brought forth.”

Merlin can only blink at Kilgharrah in confusion. Words escape him.  He was so sure… so confident that with magic allowed, with things so quiet and peaceable in the Kingdom as of late, that he and Arthur had achieved what they’d been destined to do.  To know otherwise comes as both a shock, and – the more it sinks in - somewhat of a _relief_.  Because it explains that aching, empty feeling inside of him. The disquiet that comes from more than troubling dreams. The lingering doubts that have plagued him about how ‘easy’ everything has been.  Perhaps, most importantly, the fear that he and Arthur’s destiny was at an end…  

“What broke this bond?” Arthur asks, startling Merlin with the question because he just seems so accepting of these heavy truths the dragon is lying out before them.  Merlin doesn’t know what he expected: protests maybe, fervent denial perhaps?  Not this ready acquiescence. “You said the spell worked.  Morgause’s spell.  Why would _that_ have broken our bond?” He gestures between himself and Merlin.

“That I do not know, young Pendragon.” Kilgharrah admits. “I only know that whatever she and Morgana had intended, something changed the focus of her spell.  Though I cannot know for certain, I suspect it was Morgana’s fate that the magic was tied to.  That it was her fate the magic changed and your lives were all affected as a result.”

“How can you know it was because of Morgana?” Arthur’s oddly defensive of Morgana.  It took him longer than anyone else to come around to believing her. Not that Merlin ever blamed him for that. He was the one who Morgana betrayed the worst.  But once he finally forgave her, he did so wholly and without reservations and woe to the person who speaks ill of Lady Morgana in Arthur’s presence.

“I can only guess,” Kilgharrah concedes, reluctantly, “but for what other purpose would Morgause change the intent of the magic summoned upon her death?  Though how such small power could have been responsible for such a change as _this_ …”  He lets the sentence trail off and looks at the empty space between them, as if some physical embodiment of their missing bond can be seen there. 

Merlin spreads his hands. “They intended to tear a hole between the realms of life and death, Kilgharrah. I wouldn’t think that would take an insignificant amount of magic.  Morgause sacrificed her life to give the spell power.”

“Yes, Merlin, this I know. But whatever magic was cast changed the very threads of fate. Rewove them to suit a different purpose.  There are very few people whose lives are predestined, young warlock. Yours and Arthur’s are two such lives, and that is why those of us who have some knowledge of what is foretold know of you.  And, as I’d told you years past, Morgana’s fate was once tied to yours as well.  It is no longer. I suspect it was severing that connection that caused all else to change and unravel.  And I fear that it was not only Morgause’s magic that gave the spell its strength, but that it pulls magic from Morgana still.”

Dread clenches at Merlin’s heart.  He remembers all too well the last time a spell was tied to Morgana’s very life. “No, Kilgharrah. No, I cannot do that again.” He shakes his head fervently.

“You misunderstand me, young warlock. I merely mean that it will take great effort to set your paths to rights again.”

“What must we do?” Arthur steps closer to Merlin.  Almost full darkness has fallen and it’s difficult for Merlin to see his expression, but he sounds determined.  “There must be some way,” Arthur insists, “for this to be fixed.”

Kilgharrah rears back slightly.  “You’re sure of that, are you?”

Merlin fights back a groan. He recognizes the dragon’s change in demeanor.  It’s the same stubborn, belligerent and truly frustrating attitude that used to drive Merlin crazy.  When he would answer questions with questions and his words were more of a riddle than whatever problem Merlin needed to solve.

He’d wonder why Kilgharrah seems to have had a sudden change of heart – since he seems equally concerned about what’s going on – except that he’s been expecting this kind of standoff between Arthur and Kilgharrah since they first arrived.   Arthur’s going to have to prove himself worthy of Kilgharrah’s good nature.

Kilgharrah rumbles out a considering noise.  “And would you take whatever steps are necessary to repair what has been sundered?”

“Of course,” Arthur shoots back immediately. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I do not speak of a momentary connection between you, young Pendragon, but the twining of your lives, your destinies.  You would be joined by this shared fate for the whole of your lives. And,” his tone goes flat and decidedly dangerous, “Merlin is a sorcerer after all.”

“I know what Merlin is,” Arthur snaps, sounding equally on edge.  Merlin hears him take a deep breath. “I know,” Arthur repeats, calm and firm. “And I accept him for who he is. For all that he is.”

Merlin is glad of the darkness because it hides the color that he knows has sprung up on his cheeks from the heat he can feel in them.  It’s not that he’s surprised by Arthur’s words – Arthur has defended him and his magic ardently for the past few years – but he’s never spoken of his acceptance so bluntly. “Thank you, Arthur.” Merlin tells him, softly.  He knows Kilgharrah will hear, but the words are meant for Arthur’s ears alone.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but he does step closer to Merlin yet again, moving to stand at his shoulder.  Merlin knows they’re presenting a united front and much will depend on Kilgharrah’s mood as to how easily this will go. 

“Very well,” Kilgharrah says at last. “I can think of only one way for the rift between you to be repaired.  But it is fraught with danger.” He cautions. “And it will only work if the two of you are truly committed to the task.”

“Yes, of course.” Merlin says at the same time that Arthur replies, “Of course we are.” They exchange a brief smile.

Kilgharrah stares down at them quietly for a moment, his head canted to the side. His golden eyes reflect the moonlight and Merlin isn’t sure what he sees in them except that never has he felt so much like a mouse caught in the avaricious gaze of a cat.  The noise that rumbles out of Kilgharrah’s maw before he speaks is quite like a throaty purr.   “I am glad to see you both so readily in agreement.”

There’s a challenge there – a taunt - that Merlin chooses to ignore. “What must we do?” 

“First,” Kilgharrah explains, after a clearly disappointed sigh at failing to bait him, “you must travel to the Isle of the Blessed. Once there you must cast a spell which I will share with you.” He points his snout to Merlin, who nods. “You must then do whatever it is that the magic requires.” One foreleg lifts briefly; the draconian version of a shrug. “I cannot say for certain what this spell will ask of you.  I only know that it was originally intended as a way to bind two practitioners of the Old Religion together to share their life force and their powers. It is an ancient ritual, a magic from ages past.” He points a wicked looking talon at them. “It is not to be taken lightly.”

Merlin looks at Arthur. It’s not quite a question when he speaks for the both of them. “We understand.” If Arthur doesn’t agree, he’s not admitting it in front of the dragon.

He turns back to Kilgharrah and takes two steps towards him. He holds his arms out, bracing and closes his eyes. “I’m ready.” He says, and then adds – for Arthur’s benefit – “For the spell.”

 “Very well,” he hears Kilgharrah reply and then he feels the rush of dragon breath wash over him, like the humid steam rising up from the mineral springs in the far north (and smelling similarly sulfuric).  Just as the last time Kilgharrah shared magic with him in this way, the sudden knowledge unfurls in his mind, clear as words appearing on a blank page, scribing themselves in his memory in heavy ink.

There’s a moment when he’s utterly surrounded in magic. Alive with it.  Feeling it in the earth beneath his feet and the night air that eddies around him. It’s a golden glow from Kilgharrah, ancient and familiar, and there’s even a small spark of something bright and precious that he knows is Arthur. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. The feeling fades away just as slow as the exhale and he finally opens his eyes.

Kilgharrah is already backing up, wings extended, ready to fly. “Thank you.” Merlin manages a bit breathlessly.

“Fix this, young Warlock and young King. Set your destiny to rights.” Kilgharrah advises and then launches into the air.  Merlin lifts an arm to shield himself from the buffeting downdrafts of his wing beats.  He waits until Kilgharrah disappears beyond the tree line and then he turns to Arthur.

Who is staring at him.  Even in the dark Merlin recognizes that particular curious yet wary cast to his slightly narrowed eyes.

“So, the dragon _shared_ a spell.” He sounds curious but doesn’t quite state it as a question. “I guess I was just expecting him to recite it or something.”

Merlin lifts a hand to rub at his neck.  He usually doesn’t feel quite so sheepish around Arthur when it comes to his magic. “Um, I suppose he could do that as well, but this is certainly quicker.” He gives a quick grin and is relieved to see it echoed in the small smile curving Arthur’s lips.  “So, back to Camelot?” he asks.

“No,” Arthur responds immediately.  “Why would we go back to Camelot?” He points an arm vaguely in the direction Kilgharrah flew off in. “You heard the dragon. We’ve got a destiny to fix.”

“Yeah, but I thought we’d… I dunno, need to tell someone that we’re going to be away for a few days.” Arthur is the King of Camelot. He can’t just go traipsing off into the wilds on a whim.

To Merlin’s surprise Arthur just waves that away. “Let me worry about that.  We’re already heading in the right direction. To head back now would set us at least two days behind.   I’m quite sure there’s a village not far from here, at the southern ridges of the White Mountains. We’ll stop there tomorrow and I’ll have someone carry word back to Camelot. Leon and the Knights can look after things for a few days.”  He paces forward and then claps Merlin on the arm. “Come on. Let’s get a camp set-up. I want to be back on the trail at first light.”

Merlin stares after him while Arthur makes for the trees and their waiting horses.   For some reason, one that Merlin can’t quite pinpoint yet, Arthur already seems less burdened than just a few hours ago. His shoulders are low, arms swinging loose and easy as he strides through the grass. 

It occurs to Merlin, once he starts after Arthur, that perhaps just _going_ on this journey together will begin to repair whatever it is that’s broken between them.

He catches up just as Arthur is unsaddling Regal.  Rosehip’s tack is already off and set aside.  “Shall I get a fire going?” Merlin offers.

Arthur nods. “Yes. Though finding good firewood might be a bit of a challenge, as dark as it’s gotten.”

Merlin tries not to sound too smug when he replies, “That won’t be a problem.”

“What do you—“

Before Arthur can finish asking Merlin’s already hurrying out a quick, “Leoht.”  A glowing ball of light appears, floating over the palm of his outstretched hand. 

“Handy, that.” Arthur scoffs.  Though Merlin can see, in the soft white glow that casts eerie shadows over Arthur’s pale face, that his eyebrows are up and he’s trying to hide his amusement.

“Certainly is.” Merlin laughs.  “Here.” He holds out his hand and ‘pushes’ the ball of light to float a few feet above Arthur’s head.

Arthur looks up at it, squinting, and then back at Merlin. “What about you.”

He knows he’s showing off, but Merlin’s having too much fun watching Arthur react to his silly little displays of power.  He just smirks and holds his hand out again.  He snaps his fingers and a second glowing sphere blinks into existence. “I’m fine.”

That earns him a chuckle. “I can see that,” Arthur agrees with a slightly rueful shake of his head. “And since you’re fine, why don’t you see to that firewood.”

Merlin groans but does as he’s asked.   He supposes that he could object – he’s a member of the Royal court now –but he’s never really minded Arthur ordering him about.   Silly as it is, he sort of misses it. 

When he comes back to their hastily made camp Arthur is arranging their bedrolls around the ring of stones that he’s set out as the boundaries of their fire.  They continue on in comfortable silence, Merlin working on stacking his kindling and a few larger logs and Arthur pulling the makings of their dinner out of their packs. It could almost _be_ years ago, the pair of them out on a hunt, when Merlin was just Arthur’s bumbling servant, and Arthur a naïve princeling who knew nothing of Merlin’s magic.

Of course, thoughts like that are chased away once Merlin finishes piling the sticks and branches and starts the fire going with just a thought.   He thinks he catches Arthur watching him as he does it, but when he looks up again Arthur is back to pulling things out of a saddle pack.

Arthur hands over a cloth wrapped bundle once Merlin sits down.  Merlin unties it and peels aside the thin linen and then a waxy parchment to find a surprising assortment of fruit, cheese, bread and dried meat.  At least George packed them a decent meal.  

“You know, _that_ ,” Arthur points at the fire which is already cracking merrily, “really would’ve come in handy on that hunting trip where you knocked me into the creek and then couldn’t get a fire started with your flint and tinder.”

Merlin remembers the occasion and has to duck his head to hide a grin.

Which he apparently doesn’t do too well because Arthur groans. “That was on purpose, wasn’t it?  Making me suffer with soaking wet boots and sodden trousers.”

“Well you were being quite a prat that day, Arthur.  You really did deserve it.”

Arthur doesn’t argue.  Merlin looks over the fire to see him nodding. “Yeah, I’m sure I was.” He meets Merlin’s gaze, smiling softly.  Then he gives a quick eyeroll. “Not that you probably didn’t deserve whatever it was I said or did.” He picks at a piece of jerky.

“Of course,” Arthur says a few minutes later, after finishing off an apple. “You _must’ve_ risked it, the magic, that time we were on that early spring hunt and I turned my ankle.  I swore there was no _way_ you were going to get a fire going, even under that stone overhang, as damp as it still was and yet somehow you managed.”

The heat from the fire, or perhaps something else, suffuses Merlin’s cheeks.  He looks down to his hands. “Yes, well.  I may have cheated a bit on that one. To be fair, there was no way you were going to get back to the castle that night and I didn’t want you… I mean us, to freeze to death.”

“Merlin,” Arthur snorts, “it wasn’t _that_ cold that night. We wouldn’t have frozen.”

Merlin just shrugs. “Well, you were in pain and rather miserable.” Before that can be misconstrued, he hurries to add, “I mean, you’d have made _me_ miserable with all of your complaining.”

That gets him a haughty sniff. “I don’t complain, Merlin. I merely point out the basic facts of situations.”  Arthur can’t hold his straight face for more than a few moments, and a smile soon breaks through the austere mien.

“Oh of course,” Merlin agrees with a voice equally heavy in feigned sincerity.

“Really though,” Arthur goes on, “I’m glad you risked it back then. I mean, risked the magic around me. I know you did much more often than I probably even know to this day, but I’m grateful for it.” He waves a hand in a loose circle. “Not just for the times you’ve saved my life, but for all the other times you did it to make things just a little better for us… for me.”

Merlin’s never very good at receiving compliments, or thanks, especially from Arthur, but it’s easy for him to reply as he knows best: with humor. “That’s good to know, Arthur. You have no idea how many times I only got through polishing all your armor and all the rest of my chores because of the magic.”

Arthur fixes him with a black look. “Oh really, Mer _lin_?”

“Um,” Merlin takes a hasty bite of whatever is in his hand. Around a mouthful of cheese he manages a crumby, “And I’ve saved your life a lot.”

Arthur just rolls his eyes again, quite dramatically, and tosses the heel of his bread at Merlin’s head.

They finish the rest of their meal mostly in silence, chatting here and there about little things.  Mostly just catching up, really.  Something they’ve not had occasion to do in a very long time.  By the time they both get settled for sleep their fire has burned down low and the moon is bright overhead.  Merlin is more tired than he can remember being in quite some time and it’s not just having spent half the day on horseback.   He tucks the thick wool blanket tight around himself and shifts around until he finds a comfortable spot.

“Good night, Arthur.” He calls out quietly.

Arthur’s soft reply is muffled through cloth, as he’s wrapped up tight in his cloak. “Night, Merlin.”

Merlin watches the stars in their slow tracking path across the sky until between one blink and the next they shimmer and then shift and then fade away entirely.  He falls asleep.

~~~~~~~~~

_Arthur lays in his bed, pale and almost lifeless._

_Merlin kneels next to him, hands pushing down on Arthur’s chest. He feels himself reach deep within – perhaps deeper than he’s ever delved for his own power – and then the magic surges through him. He forces that magic into Arthur’s nearly still chest._

_He tries not to focus on the fact that he can’t feel the beat of Arthur’s heart beneath his hands._

_The words of the spell come out guttural and harsh. They hurt his throat with their force.  He almost slumps once they’re expelled.  Use of such magic, pulled from his very being, drains him.  He’d let himself close his eyes if he didn’t have all the need in the world to keep them open._

_He stands, slowly, watching the figure on the bed. Waiting, with anxiety clawing at all the raw and worn parts of him. “Arthur!” he cries out, frantically and then he looks at Gaius and sees the quick shake of his head. The confirmation of Merlin’s failure. “Arthur,” he whispers the words into the press of his fists, hot tears spilling down his cheeks and over his desperately clenching fingers, “no… no, no.”_

“Merlin,” the voice is hissed close to his ear. It doesn’t make sense; it’s Arthur’s voice, but Arthur is dying in his bed…

“Merlin!”

He startles awake, tries to sit up from the tangle of his blanket and finds himself held down by heavy arms. “No! I have to get to him… no. Let me…” He knows he’s babbling, flailing about, but he has to get to Arthur.

“Merlin, it’s fine. I’m right here, you’re fine.”

It comes to him in an instant that the weight over him, the hands curled firmly around his shoulders, the chest pressing him down – they all belong to Arthur.   Arthur who is alive, and holding him to the forest floor in the middle of a clearing next to the glowing embers of their campfire.

“Arthur?” He gasps and blinks up at Arthur, catching only the barest hint of his features limned by moonlight. “Sorry,” he manages after a moment, once he has his breathing under control.

“It’s alright, Merlin.” Arthur assures him with calm surety.

“I was dreaming.” Merlin offers, rather needlessly, as an explanation.

He catches the flash of Arthur’s teeth, realizes he’s smiling. “I know, Merlin.” Arthur backs off just slightly. Merlin can see just a bit more of him now.   Despite the way his mouth is curved up at the corners his eyes look troubled.

“Were you as well? Having the dreams, I mean?”

For a moment he thinks Arthur might deny it.  But then Arthur just gives a sharp nod.

“What were yours about?” He wonders because when he’s talked to Morgana, they’ve found that their dreams parallel, showing them each different points of views of the same events.  If he was dreaming of Arthur poisoned, dying, then what was Arthur dreaming?

Arthur sits on the ground next to him, still close enough that his thigh is pressed up against Merlin’s hip. Both his hands go up, sliding over his forehead and through his hair. “I was having dinner with Gwen.  Something… something was off about it all.  Things went dizzy and then I must’ve blacked out. After that it was just… weird images.  Voices.  You and Gwen and Gaius… others, too. Then such an odd feeling just before I woke.  Like sunlight on my skin, but being forced inside of me…” He trails off, dragging his hands over his face once more and rubbing fiercely.  “That’s when I woke up and heard you calling out.”

His retelling sparks more of Merlin’s memories. He can recall the discovery of the scrap of beaded cloth matching Gwen’s cloak, his frantic dash to through the castle to get to Arthur in time, charging into Arthur’s room to see him slumped over in his chair, dinner going cold in front of him.  Then the accusations from Gwen, and being thrown in the cells.   It’s all hazy though, compared to the despair of seeing Arthur so close to death.

“You were dying, Arthur.” Merlin says in a small voice.  Even now, awake, knowing it was just a dream, doesn’t take away the lingering dread of it all. “You’d been poisoned and I was trying to use my magic to save you and it didn’t work. I tried… I did as much as I could, and I couldn’t save you.”

Arthur’s hand lands on his leg, just above his knee. It squeezes. “It wasn’t real, Merlin. And I’m here now. You’ve saved me plenty.  Don’t you worry about that.”

He takes comfort from the words, knowing the appreciation is genuine. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Now try to get some sleep. It’s late and we need to be up with the dawn.” Arthur encourages before levering himself up from the ground. 

Merlin tries to settle back into sleep.  The sound of something being dragged over the dirt distracts him even before he can close his eyes.

“Arthur, what are you doing?

“I’m moving my bedroll over here.” He says it defensively, almost like it’s a challenge. “I’m sure we’ll both sleep better this way.” Merlin hears what he’s not saying. That he’s just as troubled by this nights dreaming as Merlin.

When he positions his blanket to the outside, at Merlin’s back, Merlin has to protest. “You’ll get cold if you do that. At least take the inside.”

Arthur makes a dismissive sound. “Merlin, the fire’s hardly putting off much heat any longer. Besides, you’re warm enough for the both of us. I’ll be fine.”

Merlin tries not to fidget as Arthur settles in close, pressing the line of his body against Merlin’s back.  How he resists the urge to snuggle back into that warmth, Merlin doesn’t know.

“You know, there’s something bothering me.” Arthur’s voice comes from far too close to Merlin’s ear. Close enough he can feel the breath from the words against his nape.

“What’s that?” he asks, pleased to hear his voice isn’t quavering.

“The dragon never did explain this.”

Merlin feels a hand settle on his arm. It gives him just the barest shake.  He understands what Arthur’s getting at though.

“He didn’t really have to, though, did he?” Merlin replies softly, trying not to read to heavily into the fact that Arthur leaves his hand just where it is.

And maybe Merlin’s speaking too quietly, because he feels Arthur inch closer.  “Didn’t he?” Arthur asks, and Merlin is surprised he can’t feel the words being shaped against the back of his neck. 

Merlin can’t help the shiver.  Maybe Arthur will attribute it to the cold. “No, because, in his own way, he kind of told us. I mean, the dreams, they’re…”

“They’re what _should_ be happening, aren’t they?” Arthur finishes the thought for him. “If Morgause hadn’t changed things, they’re what our lives would be.”

Merlin nods because he doesn’t trust his voice and he knows Arthur will feel it.

Silence falls between them for a very long time.  Merlin starts to let himself relax. He’s been tensed up since Arthur lay down beside him.  Eventually sleep starts to tug at Merlin’s eyelids.

Of course that’s when Arthur decides to speak again. Arthur’s voice, so low that even as close as he is to Merlin, Merlin has to strain to hear, doesn’t so much startle him as prod him back to wakefulness. “Merlin, earlier, when we were talking to the dragon… Kilgharrah,” Merlin is quite pleased at the correction, “when he told us that our destiny had been changed, you almost seemed as if you expected it. Why was that?”

Merlin sort of shrugs, again knowing that Arthur is close enough to him to feel the motion. “It’s just something I’ve been aware of since that night.” He’s never tried to verbalize the odd, blank space that exists inside of him. He doesn’t entirely know how to explain it.   “The night the spell was cast and the nightmares started.  Ever since then I’ve felt this sort of hollowness behind my ribs. Like something’s missing. But it’s not…” he goes silent, trying to find the words.

“It’s not a physical emptiness, like hunger. More like something I just sense.  It’s an ache, deep within me. I don’t know if it has to do with my magic, or it’s something else, but I’ve always wondered what the cause of it was.” He lets out a soft sigh and thinks he feels Arthur’s fingers tighten on his arm in response to it. “When Kilgharrah told us of what he suspected, it was like I suddenly found a name for what was wrong.”

Arthur hums his consideration into Merlin’s nape. “And, just how long have you know about this destiny of ours?”

“Since the very beginning. Almost the first day I came to Camelot.” He thinks back on it, the memory hazy but pleasant.  “Well, perhaps a few days after. I did almost spend my second night in Camelot in the dungeons after all.” He chuckles lightly, and then tries to quiet it when the movement of it rocks him back, closer to Arthur.

It doesn’t help that Arthur laughs as well. Breathy and almost noiseless, but his body shakes with it.  It’s telling of how close they’re laying that Merlin feels so much of it. “Yes, well.  In retrospect your attitude when we first met makes sense a lot more sense.  You really could have beaten me, if you’d used your magic.” The hand still on Merlin’s arm squeezes firmly this time. “I’m glad you didn’t, though.”

“Me too.” Merlin hastily agrees.  He knows they’re both thinking that because it would’ve meant that Uther would have found out and probably had him killed, but for Merlin it also might have changed the way their lives ended up.

“So, how did you find out then?  About being the other half of my whole?” He says the latter with a touch of sarcasm, but equal amounts of sincerity as well.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin explains. “He sensed my presence in the castle. I could hear this voice calling to me in the night.  And so I went to find it.”

“And that led you to the caverns and that’s when the dragon told you?”

Merlin cringes just a bit. “Um, yeah.  He told me that you were the once and future king who would unite the land of Albion. That it was your destiny but that you couldn’t do it without me.”  

Arthur hummms in consideration. “And what did you say to that?”

It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. So Merlin tells the truth. “That the only Arthur I knew was an idiot, so he must be taking about someone else.”

“Hey!” Arthur rocks forward, nudging Merlin with a knee into the back of a thigh and his chin against Merlin’s shoulder.  His protest sounds loud in Merlin’s ear, but likely isn’t enough to carry too far beyond the small boundaries of their camp. 

Even though he knows it’s probably not a good idea, Merlin jerks back, shoving Arthur away just as playfully. “Hey, nothing. I saved your life that very same night.”

Arthur grabs at him before he can shift forward again, and holds him in place.  Merlin goes still, muscles tightening and breath catching and stuttering in his chest.

“I know,” Arthur says, very matter-of-factly, pressing his mouth almost into Merlin’s ear. “And I know how many times you’ve saved it since.” 

He continues to hold on, and Merlin waits, utterly lost as to what he should do.  Should he pull away, put a safer distance between them?  Or fall back against Arthur, like he so badly wants to?  Fighting between the two urges he feels like a string pulled taut, vibrating with the tension.

Finally, after what seems like long hours, Arthur relaxes his hold and Merlin let’s himself roll fully onto his side, towards the fire.  “Get some sleep.” Arthur whispers.   He shifts as well, enough that Merlin can feel spots of cold seep into the spaces between them.  His arm, however, stays over Merlin’s, and that’s enough to reassure Merlin that all is well. 

He slips into sleep feeling oddly comforted.

~~~~~~~~~

Merlin wakes, coming out of slumber in lazy increments, to warmth surrounding him. 

He shifts into it, stretching out slowly, enjoying the slow easing into consciousness and awareness.  And then the warmth tightens around him; the arm that’s wrapped like a band around his chest draws him closer. 

Merlin’s abruptly, fully awake.  The events of the night before come back to him immediately and even though the morning light is rather soft and leaf-filtered rather than harsh and bright, he’s feeling full of regret.   Arthur woke him from a bad dream, essentially, and then had to sleep beside him to keep him quiet.  He feels quite foolish.  He only hopes Arthur is kind enough to let him live this down.

Arthur is making sleepy noises behind him and the whole of Merlin’s back is pressed fairly snugly to Arthur’s front.   Sometime in the night Arthur wormed his other arm beneath Merlin’s neck, so his head is pillowed on it, and there’s even a leg thrown over the backs of Merlin’s thighs.  He’d feel guilty about the parts of him that are meeting the dawn a little more enthusiastically than others, except there’s a firm line pressing into his hip that suggests he’s not the only one (unless Arthur went to sleep with a dagger tucked into his trousers… which Merlin wouldn’t exactly put past him).  

He is, rather effectively, caged by Arthur.   

He attempts to extricate himself, trying to ease his hip forward; sliding his thigh out from under Arthur’s draping leg.  Unfortunately he forgets to take into consideration the prior day spent in the saddle.  There’s a shooting pain when he moves a leg, like a line of fire, chasing down from his hip and rear all the way to the back of his knee. He winces and lets out a hissing breath.

Behind him Arthur stirs. “Merlin?” he mutters, though it comes out more like, “Mrrrnnn.”

Shhhh,” he breathes out, trying to lull Arthur back to sleep.

Arthur’s having none of that.  In a voice that sounds thick as cotton batting he asks, “Whas’sit? Wha’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Merlin lies hurriedly. “Nothing, just waking up.”

Apparently waking up completely wrapped around his former manservant and current Court Sorcerer is entirely unremarkable for Arthur because he just sort sighs and harrumphs and then just rolls back away from Merlin, releasing him from the prison of tangling arms and legs while letting out a noisy yawn. “I’m just going to sleep a bit longer,” he mutters thickly, and rolls over onto his other side.

Feeling like he’s been granted a stay of execution, Merlin lets out a silent sigh and then slowly eases himself to his feet.   He almost succeeds until he starts to straighten, and the pull and ache in his thighs makes him hiss out in pain.

Arthur tumbles onto his back and blinks up at Merlin muzzily. “What’s wrong?” This time Merlin can actually understand the words clearly.

“Oh, uh, nothing.” He tries to step away without flinching.

But Arthur is fully awake now and he doesn’t miss the slight hitch in Merlin’s movement. “Merlin, is your backside sore from all that riding.”  His grin is positively delightful.

Merlin really doesn’t know if he should be offended at being teased so, or thrilled that Arthur feels comfortable enough with him to taunt him with such familiarity. He can’t recall the last time Arthur has looked so pleased with himself and his mocking.   Still, he’s not going to let Arthur get the upper hand, so he straightens and says, “No. I’m fine.”

Arthur’s drawled out, “Really...?” is just too much.

“Yes,” Merlin snipes, perhaps a bit more sharply than intended. “I’m just fine.  Just a bit stiff from sleeping on the ground.” He concedes the latter with a smirk down towards Arthur. “Getting to be too like you nobles.  All spoiled and pampered with your down-stuffed mattresses and soft, fluffy pillows.”

“Oh, soft? Is that what we nobles are?”  Naturally, Arthur has to demonstrate otherwise and he practically springs to his feet from lying prone on the ground. Just watching his limber body move like that is enough to make all of Merlin’s muscles spasm in sympathy.

“How’s that for soft?” Arthur taunts.

“Well,” Merlin pretends to be entirely unimpressed. “Leaping out of bed is all well and good, but it’d be much better if you also managed to get us breakfast.”

“Is that so?” There’s a warning tone to the question.

Merlin is reminded of all those times he pushed just a little too far, just because he liked to see the fire spark in Arthur’s eyes.  Even if it did result with him getting cuffed around the head a time or two.  He can tell that Arthur’s about one more comment away from either chasing him around their camp or finding something to throw at his head.

He has to push. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. Otherwise it’s just a bit of you jumping around like there’s ants in your trousers. Nothing particularly impressive about that.”

“Mer _lin_.” It’s been a very long time since Merlin has heard his name growled out in that tone of voice.  Arthur stalks towards him and Merlin waits until he’s just within arm’s reach and then dashes away, laughter trailing behind him. 

Of course, eventually Arthur catches him up, and he gets a thump to the arm that doesn’t really smart as much as he makes out (although Arthur looks a bit guilty when Merlin rubs at the spot).   It doesn’t stop him from picking on Arthur though, teasing him, and Arthur gives back as good as he gets. Their bickering is good-natured, silly even, and erases all of Merlin’s lingering dark thoughts from his dreams the night before.   Once again he’s completely subsumed by the feeling of ‘rightness’; that this is how things should always be between them.

They eat a quick meal and make even quicker work of packing up and readying for the journey ahead.

“Come on, Merlin, hurry up.  We’ve got to get on the road.” Arthur urges from where he’s already in the saddle, which is rather annoying since he’s the one who wanted to keep sleeping earlier.  “That is, if your backside can handle it?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin sniffs. He makes a show of easing into the saddle, as if his legs aren’t screaming at him the whole while.  He reins Rosehip in a wide circle to bring her behind Arthur and Regal.  Through the woods they keep to a steady, plodding walk, but as soon as they clear the trees Arthur heels Regal into a lope.

“Keep up, Merlin!” He calls back over his shoulder.

Merlin has to cluck at the bay mare beneath him as well as jab a little harder with his boot heels than he likes because she’s apparently no more eager to be up and about than Merlin is.  Eventually she rocks him forward with a little lunge that steadies itself into a slightly jerky canter.  Merlin knows that she’s capable of a smoother gait and is expressing her displeasure with the herky-jerky popping of her knees.  He tries to sit loose in the saddle, because every time he tightens his knees into her barrel his muscles protest, loudly.  He puts up with it though – suffering in silence - because he’s not going to give Arthur the satisfaction of knowing just how sore he is after he so denied it so adamantly.

They ride for some time, moving too quick for any kind of reliable conversation. It isn’t until Merlin gets a better idea of the sun’s position in the sky that he calls out to Arthur. “Wait!  Hold up.”

Ahead of him, Arthur reins in Regal and chivvies him to one worn rut of the wagon-track trail they’re following.  He twists in his saddle, looking at Merlin with curiosity (if he notices Merlin wincing when Rosehip shifts gaits to an even more bone-jangling trot before slowing to a walk, he doesn’t comment).  “What is it?”

“Why are we riding further south?”  Merlin asks, his voice high and tight. “Why don’t we head through the tunnels in the White Mountains?”

Arthur’s brows dip in and he lets out an amused snort. “That anxious to go through the tunnels and encounter Wilddeoren again, are you?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head firmly. “Definitely not.  It’s just that it’s a quicker way to get to the Isle of the Blessed.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “it’s quicker. But if we continue to parallel the range southward for a time, we’ll reach the village of White Lake. It’s small, but we should be able to restock provisions and I can also arrange to have a message sent back to Camelot.”

“Oh,” Merlin replies brightly. “That’s good. I really hate Wilddeoren.”

Arthur smirks. “Well, once we leave the village, crossing through the caverns at the southernmost point of the mountain range would be faster than trying to skirt the foothills. So you may get your chance to enjoy the giant baby rats after all.”

Merlin frowns a moment and then brightens right back up again. “Well at least this time I can use my magic to keep them away and we won’t have to stink of gaya berries.”

Instead of agreeing, Arthur frowns.

“What is it?” Merlin wonders with a tiny modicum of real worry.

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather enjoyed smearing your face with stinky berries.”

Merlin, who’d been expecting something serious, can only stare at Arthur’s laughing eyes.  He shakes his head, losing the battle against fighting off the grin that wants to make itself known. “Sometimes I don’t know about you, Arthur.”

Arthur throws back his head and laughs. “That’s because I like to keep you on your toes, Merlin.” He tosses a quick smirk in Merlin’s direction and then kicks Regal into a quick jog.  His laughter echoes behind him.

Swearing under his breath Merlin clucks at Rosehips and sets out after him.

They ride through the morning, stopping only briefly at a stream to water their mounts and refill waterskins.  By the time the sun is at its apogee they reach the village Arthur spoke of.  White Lake is small compared to some of the larger villages and towns that flourish closer to Camelot, but large enough that it has a market square that sees a bit of trade.  At this time of day it’s bustling with activity.

Arthur leads them there, dismounting and tying off his reins at a post, and then he asks Merlin to gather them provisions enough to last a few days.  

“Where are you going to be?” Merlin wonders, not because he objects to being asked to do some shopping, but because he’s curious.

Arthur points to a row of shops down one of the lanes off the square. “There’s a scribe’s office over there. I’m going to pen a message for Leon and then see if I can hire someone to carry it back to Camelot.” He looks around a moment. “I’m fairly certain that someone around here will be willing to make a few days journey for the right price.”

Merlin agrees. “Alright, I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.”

It doesn’t take him long to get the necessary items. He spent several years readying Arthur for travel and he knows what packs well and what doesn’t.   The townsfolk he deals with are especially pleased as he’s in too much of a hurry to haggle and he generally pays what they’re asking (well, except for the woman selling the salted pork – because a full gold coin for two rashers is full-on highway robbery).

When he returns to the post where their horses are tethered Arthur is there holding out a letter to him.

“Can you do something to ensure this doesn’t get opened except by Leon?” Arthur asks before Merlin even has a chance to start transferring his goods into the packs.

“I could probably come up with something,” Merlin decides after giving it a moment’s consideration. “Here, get these put away.” He trades the letter for an armful of root vegetables and a small bag of oats and barley.

“Do I want to ask why?” Merlin wonders as he flips the letter in his hand and tries to think of how best to apply his magic.

Arthur starts shoving turnips into a saddle pack (and Merlin cringes because he’s probably just going to end up repacking everything to get it to fit). “I’ve found someone willing to make the ride to Camelot right away, even paid for a fast horse to do it.” He points to a figure still down the lane. “That man there. Bremen, he’s called. But something tells me this Bremen is eager to make coin wherever he can.  If he thinks he might be able to get something out of this letter that he can profit on, I worry he might risk a look at its contents.”

“Ah, I see.” Merlin studies the wax seal on the letter stamped with the Pendragon crest.  He whispers a quick spell that’s normally used for locking things like chests and doors and tacks on Leon’s name. It’s a bit of a muddle, but his will is generally strong enough to override the purest intent of the spoken spell words.

“Here,” he hands the letter back once Arthur’s finished getting everything packed away. “Leon should be the only person who can break that seal now.”

Arthur accepts the letter with a pleased nod. “Great. Now I just have to trust that he’ll get there quickly.”  He snorts. “I’m half tempted to ask if you could compel him to go straight to Camelot, if I didn’t know how you’d feel about doing it.”

Merlin appreciates that Arthur is considering his feelings on the matter, but his words give Merlin another idea. “Well, I can’t compel him, but I can do the next best thing.  Where’s his horse?”

Arthur points it out.  “The lanky grey over there. The seller swears that while he’s not much to look at, he’s got speed.”

Merlin goes over to the leggy, dappled beast who, as Arthur pointed out, is quite ungainly.  He holds out a hand, palm flat, for the horse to whuff and lip and then strokes a hand down his broad face.  He whispers more words of magic, pitching them low and towards one swiveling, bell-curved ear. The grey just rubs his velvety nose into Merlin’s palm and blows out a warm, oat-smelling breath when he’s done.  He doesn’t know exactly what spell Morgause used all those years ago, to guide Arthur’s horse to her, but he thinks his words will do the trick.

Arthur lifts an expectant eyebrow when Merlin returns.

“The horse will take Bremen straight to Camelot.”

“The horse?”

Merlin just shrugs, but he’s grinning. “I couldn’t compel the man, so I did the next best thing.”

Every time he uses his magic on Arthur’s behalf feels like the greatest thing in the world when Arthur beams at him like he is now. He’s looking at Merlin with such genuine, open admiration and his eyes are so bright and so blue.  Merlin just basks in it for a few long moments. 

Fortunately, because Arthur’s fond regard is starting to get just a little bit embarrassing, they’re interrupted by the arrival of Arthur’s makeshift courier. Merlin lets Arthur deal with the man – although keeping an ear to their conversation tells Merlin everything he wants to know about why Arthur’s a bit worried over the man’s intentions – and rearranges the supplies that Arthur packed.

They both watch from as the hired man mounts up and has to suddenly cling to the saddle when the dappled grey gelding spins elegantly and launches himself into a canter like a much spryer looking horse.   He’s out of sight through the far gates in just a few moments.

“I think that’ll work out well,” Arthur grins.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees with a chuckle, “as long as he doesn’t just decide to forget the horse and go his own way on foot.”

Arthur waits until they’re both settled in saddles and plodding towards the gate before he answers. “Well, I might have warned him that if he tried anything so foolish, we’d have ways of tracking him down.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Arthur,” Merlin chides. 

Ignoring him, Arthur urges Regal into a canter as soon as they reach the village outskirts. “C’mon,” He calls to Merlin who is keeping pace with him, riding side-by-side. “I’ve been reliably informed that there’s a passable goat trail that’ll take us over the foothills.” He shoots a quick grin at Merlin, “No Wilddeoren for you today.”

That is good enough news to Merlin that he can ignore the stiffness in his legs and ache in his lower back as they ride along.  _Almost_ , Merlin mentally amends when Arthur guides them _over_ a tumbling stone fence – rather than around it – and Rosehip lands her jump with a jarring bounce.

Fortunately the rest of the journey to the goat trail goes quick and the trail itself is well-worn. They have to keep the horses to a walk and a few times have to dismount to get them up some steep inclines, but soon enough the rocky peaks give way to plains once again, and the sloping decline is an easy ride.  What would probably have taken over a day – going further south to get around the tip of the mountain range and then coming back north – only takes a few hours.

~~~~~~~~~

Arthur reins in once the trees start closing in again.

Merlin recognizes where they are.

“We’re going through the Valley of the Fallen Kings?” Merlin asks, even though he knows it’s a stupid question. Of course they’re going through.  It’s the fastest way to the Isle of the Blessed.

“Yes,” Arthur nods. “It’s the quickest path.” He looks over to Merlin, suddenly frowning. “Is there some reason we shouldn’t go that way?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just, I’ve always ignored the stories that this place is cursed, or haunted by evil spirits or what have you. But now that I’m,” he makes an indistinct gesture with a hand, “more aware of the truth of magic, I’m just wondering if I should’ve paid more attention.” He lifts the gesturing hand and it waves towards Merlin’s face. “I mean, you look worried.  If something concerns you, perhaps we should consider going another way.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, Arthur. Really.”

When Arthur continues to frown at him, Merlin goes on, albeit somewhat reluctantly. “It’s nothing of curses or spirits that bother me about this place.  It’s just… I have some bad memories.” His mouth twists up in something like a snarl for a moment. “Well, I guess not all of them are _real_ memories.  I’ve had a few of those dreams that took place here as well.”

His gaze drops to the reins he’s twisting in his fingers. “In one of those dreams I was injured and you were trying to keep me safe. I used magic… brought a rock fall down between us so that you could escape.  I remember waking up to the sound of you shouting my name.”

Hesitantly he looks over at Arthur and sees that he’s also finding something in the area of his hands or perhaps his saddle’s pommel quite fascinating.

“I had the opposite dream.” The words sound like they’re being dragged out against Arthur’s will, scraping roughly over the gravel of his tongue.  “You were trapped here and there were men closing in. I knew I had to save you, to protect you, and then the space between us filled with rock and stone and I lost you…”

He blows out a harsh breath and finally looks over at Merlin. “And _that_ is the life we were supposed to lead?” Arthur shakes his head curtly. “Some of the things I’ve dreamed were so terrible, Merlin.  I don’t know how that can be a better life for us?  These past four years haven’t always been easy, but they’ve been a hell of a lot better than some of the things I’ve seen.”

“You’re not wanting to stop this, are you?” Merlin actually doesn’t know what answer he’s hoping for.

Arthur immediately and very firmly shakes his head.  “No. No, I’m not.  Because I do feel it… what you spoke of last night.  That vague sense of emptiness.” He presses his hand over his heart. “That knowledge that something has been off for a very long time.”  He lets his hand fall away and he gives a jerky shrug. “I _want_ to fix things, but I’m somewhat worried about what fate has in store for us both.”

Merlin can’t help the way a smile fights onto his lips. “I feel exactly the same.”  He taps his heels into Rosehip’s barrel, starts her walking down the trail. “And not all the dreams I’ve had have been bad, you know.”

He hears the jangle of tack and then hooves crunching into fallen leaves and knows that Arthur is on the trail just behind him. It’s not quite wide enough as the path narrows between the trees, for the horses to walk abreast. “You know, you’re still my manservant, even in the most recent of my dreams.”

He can hear that Arthur finds that amusing. “I know.” Because he can’t see Arthur it’s easier for Merlin to admit, “And sometimes I don’t mind that idea so much.”

“Really?” Arthur asks dryly. “Well, you’re always welcome to take that role back over from George.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s incredibly efficient but dull as unpolished brass.”  There’s a snort that Merlin is fairly sure doesn’t come from Regal. “And speaking of, don’t ever let him get started on that topic.” 

“Oh, I’ve made that mistake.” Merlin groans. “I never knew there were so many jokes about brass.”

Silence falls for a few moments while they navigate the horses around a steeply leaning tree that blocks the trail.

“I don’t know about your magic, either.” Arthur adds, all traces of amusement gone from his voice. “In the dreams.”

Merlin nods. “Yeah, I know.   It’s weird, how that goes. In the dream last night I had to sneak out of the dungeon and disguise myself and climb the castle wall just to get to you, to save you.” He tries not to let the memory of it overwhelm him. “And sometimes I had to spin the most ridiculous tales just to explain what happened to you.  I really can’t imagine going back to that.”

“I’m glad you won’t have to.” Arthur agrees.  When he speaks again, Merlin can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood. “Because if I need you to save my life, I want you to be able to do it as quickly as possible.” His laugh is just a little too forced and he paces Merlin before the rock walls narrow too far to be passable, taking the lead once again.

But Merlin will allow him the fiction, because he understands what Arthur is saying.  He thinks on it, as they ride down into the limestone walled canyon.  Arthur is right that some of the things the dreams have shown him are terrible… awful things that he’s so grateful that he’s never had to live through them. 

And some other aspects are just… odd.  Guinevere as Queen?  Perhaps there was a time when Merlin thought that might be possible, but that was before Lancelot.     In the dream world, he knows that Lancelot is dead.  In fact, one of his earliest and worst experiences with the dreams happened only a few days after they started.  At the time they’d all blamed it on Morgana returning because the very same night that she showed up at the city gates and gave herself over to the guard, Merlin dreamt that Arthur set out to sacrifice himself to save Camelot, and though he planned on taking Arthur’s place, it was Lancelot who did so.

That had also been the first night he’d wandered the castle in his sleep, ending up in Arthur’s room. His screams had woken Arthur, and half the keep it seemed, and he’d been given over to Gaius’ care.  When Merlin thinks back on it, he wonders if he hadn’t been quite so troubled, he might have noticed Arthur suffering from the same nightmare?

Still, he muses, it isn’t all bad.  At least, in that other existence, he and Arthur seem closer than they do now.  Merlin might only be his manservant, but he rarely has a dream where they’re not at each other sides.   Even when the dreams feature strange people or far-away places, Arthur is a constant in them.

He’s… missed Arthur.  Their interactions, especially over the last few months, have been so sporadic and so tied to the court and official business of the Kingdom that they haven’t really gotten the chance to just be friends.   Even just these past two days, with Arthur so much more open and free with his emotions, makes Merlin ache for what he’s clearly been missing.  And just from the way Arthur’s opened up, been at ease, tells him that Arthur’s been missing it too.

He was being wholly honest with Arthur last night when he talked about the way he knows something’s not quite right. The odd, empty ache in his chest.  Like there’s a part of his heart that’s just not there.   Much as he doesn’t want Arthur to suffer, it’s a relief to know that he feels it too.

They’re almost through the narrow corridor that winds through the Valley, and Merlin’s considering giving voice to some of his thoughts – perhaps just a few, to gauge how Arthur’s feeling – when Arthur halts suddenly and lifts a hand in warning.

“What is it?” Merlin hisses.  He glances around them, peering through the tree boles and branches on the ridgelines above, but doesn’t see anything amiss.

Arthur doesn’t reply for a very long time.  “Thought I heard something.” He finally says after many long minutes of silence have passed.  Merlin sees the back of his head shake. “It sounded close, but sounds do echo oddly down here.” His shoulders lift and then settle back down.  “Perhaps it’s just this place.”

Merlin can’t dispute that. “You’ll get no arguments from me about that.  The sooner we’re out of here the—“  He doesn’t finish the thought because the canyon suddenly seems to come alive with bandits, screaming out their battle cries.

Rosehip rears in fright and Merlin holds tight to the saddle to keep from being thrown as he watches men flood in from either end of the narrow defile.  With both ends of closing off, they’ve nowhere to run.  The group in front – at least two score in rag-tag armor and wielding an assortment of weapons - are nearer, and they surge toward Arthur with murderous intent. 

“Merlin!” Arthur calls out frantically, “on me!” He’s already charging Regal towards the closest bevy of men, his sword out and held low to cut as many down as he can from horseback.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts after him. “Oh, hell.” He flicks a glance at the stone walls to the rear and spits out a quick, “Gewican ge stanas!” and spins Rosehip around, kicking her towards Arthur even as he hears rocks come tumbling down behind him.  “Arthur!” Damn the man for not waiting for his _Sorcerer_ to deal with this.  He yanks back hard on the reins just a second later, prompting Rosehip to slide-stop and Merlin jumps from the saddle even before her hooves are done skidding through the dirt.  He sees Arthur plowing back his way, Regal just trampling over body after body, Arthur’s sword flashing silver and spraying red.

“Arthur, get over here!” he all but orders.  Not that it’ll have any effect. He can already tell that Arthur’s blood is up. He’s been pent-up – with fear and loneliness and rage – and all of that has finally found a just target. There’ll be no stopping him.

So Merlin does the next best thing.  His throws his hand out towards the men who are closing in on Arthur and his mount, trying to grab at Regal’s bridle to stop him and to drag Arthur to the ground. Though their numbers appear pared down, nearly a dozen are still pressing in on all sides.  Arthur’s initial charge took them by surprise, but they’re regrouping, coordinating finally.

Merlin just shoves his hand forward, the spell, “Ástríce,” is less magic – since he really doesn’t need to speak the word - and more a curse being spat from his tongue over and over.  Three men go tumbling, then two more, slamming against the stone walls behind them.  He pushes out again, and another two fly backwards as if tugged by some great force.  The four or five still standing – too crowded around Arthur for him to lash out at in number- finally register him for the threat he is.

He hears someone cry the warning of, “Sorcerer!” and he knows he’s become their target.  They leave off their focus on Arthur and fix on him instead.

Arthur, naturally, is not keen to let that happen.  He chivvies Regal past the bodies now intent on Merlin and reaches Merlin before they can. He leaps off of Regal’s back in a truly tremendous maneuver worthy of some of the acrobats and tumblers Merlin’s seen during celebrations in the city and lands, knees bent, sword at the ready, just at Merlin’s side.

“About ten more,” he reports, pointing past Merlin, almost breathlessly but still flush with battle and grinning wildly, “from the other side. Clearing the rockfall.” He puts his back to Merlin’s.  And he trusts... _trusts_ … that Merlin can handle the remains of the original group still closing in.

Without Arthur or Regal to watch out for, the bandits are easily dispatched with a mere flick of his hand.   In only the matter of a few breathlessly spilled out words all the men are down and either groaning feebly or utterly still. He spins around. 

The smaller force, though beyond the fallen boulders, has halted. They seem to be weighing their options.

Arthur laughs at them. “Come on then,” he taunts, his teeth still bared in that manic smile. “There are ten of you and only two of us.” He gestures them closer with his blade. “Afraid to attack us with odds like that?”

Naturally no one bothers to point out that their ‘just two’ took out over a dozen men, with neither of them so much as scratched.   Although this thought has apparently crossed the minds of the bandits, because – to a man – they throw down their weapons and turn to flee.

Arthur, being Arthur, rushes after them with a rallying cry of, “For the love of Camelot!” either not hearing or deliberately ignoring Merlin’s plea of, “Arthur, just let them go.” Biting down on further words, since Arthur is already too far away to hear them, Merlin runs after him.

He loses sight of Arthur at a bend in the ravine and slows as he approaches it. There are several other honeycombing channels worn into the limestone and he doesn’t want to risk some of the bandits having doubled back to deal with him alone. 

His instincts prove well-founded. When he peers around a corner, he spies someone treading quietly after Arthur.  He moves out after the lone figure, hand extended in readiness, and calls out a curt, “Hold!”

The man freezes in place.

Something about this figure strikes Merlin as odd. He’s cloaked and hooded and doesn’t appear to be carrying any weapons that Merlin can see. “Turn around,” Merlin instructs, “slowly. And keep your hands visible.”

The person does as he’s told, hands out lifting into view and as he swings around in a slow, hesitant arc, the face that’s revealed is one Merlin is all-too familiar with.

“Mordred?”  He doesn’t recognize him from the boy he once knew, but from the young man he’s seen in his dreams. 

Mordred’s blue eyes go wide with recognition. “Merlin?”  He hisses out in surprise so genuine there’s no way it could be feigned. Then he casts a quick glance over his shoulder. “Does that mean that that’s…”

“Arthur, yes.” Merlin confirms with a wry twist to his lips.   He looks Mordred up and down, taking in the too-gaunt features, the dirty homespun and the dirt-smeared cheeks.  “What are you doing here, Mordred? These men, they’re not Druids.  Why are you with them? Are you working for them?”  He can’t fathom what Mordred is doing here but it seems too great a coincidence to be one.

That earns him a scowl. “Not by choice.” He starts to raise his arms and, noticing when Merlin goes on the alert, does so carefully, hands spread to show he means no harm. When he lifts them high enough and his sleeves fall away Merlin can see the reddened chafing around each wrist.

“They keep you shackled?”

Mordred nods. “With spelled iron manacles.”  He looks torn between defiance and defeat.

“But you have magic, Mordred. How can they keep you if you don’t want to be held?”

Mordred stays stubbornly silent on that, but Merlin can see the tightening around his eyes. There’s more going on here than he realizes.  

He frowns, thinking back on Mordred’s surprise at seeing him. “Wait, you didn’t know? Who we were, I mean?”

“No,” Mordred shakes his head. “They only knew there were some men passing this way.  Looked to be well-off.  Men who spent quite a bit of coin in White Lake.  Their contact in the village thought you might be nobles from Camelot, but he never suspected that it was the King himself he was setting up.”

Merlin wants to track down that cursed Bremen. Seems Arthur was right in his concern that he’d sell them out for a bit of coin. “And I suppose they received word of our passing from a man called Bremen?”

“No,” Mordred says again, frowning. “There’s a scribe in White Lake who slips them information.  He says he sent them, well you,” a hand lifts to gesture at Merlin, “towards a goat path over the mountains. It’s a trick of theirs, you see. The goat path is a sure way to cross if you’re heading into the Valley of the Fallen Kings, but it takes some hours and there’s a runner who sends word to the camp in time to get an ambush in place.”

Merlin makes a mental apology to Bremen, and then another note to have something done about that deceitful scribe.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s shout startles him out of his brief reverie and he looks down the path to see two men running his way, Arthur close on their heels.   He reacts without thinking, shoving Mordred out of the way while he gets a hand up and sends the two bandits flying backwards.  Arthur has to leap over one man as they crash to the ground, to avoid getting tripped up.  He lands, surefooted and looks behind him to see that neither man is moving.

“Well done, Merlin!” Arthur enthuses.  He starts to put his sword back into its sheath when he spots Mordred levering himself up from the ground where Merlin’s shove must’ve tumbled him. “What’s this?”

Merlin holds one hand down to Mordred to help him up, and the other out to calm Arthur.  “Arthur, this is Mordred. I think perhaps you know him.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur whisks his sword back out and stalks over to Mordred with it. He stops with the point just under Mordred’s chin. “You set us up?” he growls, eyes flashing alarmingly.

“No,” Merlin hurries to interrupt, even before Mordred can respond. “No, it was the scribe. In White Lake. He thought we were well-to-do nobles.  That’s the reason he gave you the directions to the goat path. It gave them time to get the ambush in place.”

Arthur lowers the sword and curses. “And here I was worried about Bremen.”

Merlin gives him a brief grin. “Yeah, I know.  I think we owe that man an apology.”

“But what are you doing _here_ , Mordred?” Arthur asks. He’s finally sheathed his sword, but his hand rests on the hilt.

Mordred, who’s glancing between Merlin and Arthur with a peculiar expression, lets his gaze drop to the dirt. “I was working for them.”

“Using your magic for them, you mean.” Merlin adds.

The look Mordred shoots him is one of panicky alarm.  It takes a moment for Merlin to realize that it’s because he suggested that in front of Arthur. “Oh! Oh, no. It’s fine.” He waves away the concern, patting at the air consolingly. “Arthur knows all about my magic now.” He feels himself grinning a bit foolishly and tries to turn it to something a little more comforting. “Magic is welcome in Camelot now, Mordred. As are the Druid people.  How do you not know this?”

Again, Mordred presses his lips together stubbornly. “I’ve been far away,” he finally lets out. “I’ve only recently come back to these lands. And since then, I’ve been… working for these men.” He practically spits out the last.

Arthur’s eyes narrow and he purses his lips thoughtfully. “You don’t want to be, that much is clear.” His gaze drops a moment to Mordred’s arms, to the reddened rings at his wrists. “They use you, don’t they?”

Silence.

“What do they have you doing?” Merlin wonders while Arthur continues to study the young man speculatively. “We weren’t attacked by magic.”

Mordred shakes his head almost violently. “No, they don’t know fully what I’m capable of. But,” he hesitates just a moment, “I keep them silent, when they’re gathering for the ambush.  I muffle their sounds so that they don’t alert their quarry. I do some other menial tasks back in camp, as well.”

Merlin recalls the fact that a sound was what put Arthur on the alert, just before the attack, and he’s certain that Mordred isn’t quite as careful with doing his job as the bandits realize.  It’s likely not enough that they’d notice, but still, it gives their quarry a chance.  A minor act of defiance, but perhaps one that’s saved a life or two.  “But why would you do this? What hold do they have over you?” He can’t fathom why someone with Mordred’s power would let himself be used so.

“They’ve got someone, don’t they?” Arthur guesses.  “Someone you care for. Someone they’re using against you as leverage.”

Mordred still doesn’t say anything but the quality of his stubborn silence changes from petulant to desperate.  There’s something in the tightness around his eyes and the total blankness of his stare that tells Merlin that Arthur’s got the right of it. 

“I’m sorry, Mordred,” Merlin starts to say, already wondering if this is something they should get involved in, when Arthur speaks over him.

“We’ll fix this, Mordred. We’ll rescue whoever it is they’re using against you.”

Merlin bites down on the protest he wants to make – can they really trust him – when he sees how Arthur’s offer brings a light to Mordred’s eyes that makes them seem to almost glow like fairy fire. “You will?” He is reminded so much of the small boy who they snuck out of Camelot all those years ago.

Arthur nods.  “Can you slip away?  Can you get away from them?”

Mordred thinks on it for a moment and then nods. “With the chaos you both have caused, I should be able to, for a few days.” The hope falls away from his face, leaving despair in its wake. “They know I will come back.”

“Good.” Arthur takes hold of Mordred’s shoulder and leans in close, looking him in the eye. “Then I want you to go to Camelot.  Merlin and I can’t go with you, not right away. We’re undertaking a very secret, very important task ourselves at the moment.” Merlin does _not_ roll his eyes at that. “But go to Camelot, tell the guard that I’ve sent you and await our return. I will personally gather my Knights and we’ll return to the lair of these bandits and see them flushed out, brought to justice and anyone being held against their will freed.”

Merlin can see that Mordred wants to jump at the offer. Still he hesitates. “My Lord, I am a sorcerer.” He gestures down at himself. “And I don’t exactly look very reputable.  Surely they will not just accept my word that I’ve spoken with you.”

That gives Arthur pause.  He twists up his mouth in that crooked way he does when he’s thinking – one that Merlin absolutely does not think makes him looks a bit adorable and a bit like a turnip-head at the same time – and then lifts a finger. “I’ve got it.” He starts walking down the defile, back the way they’d run from when he chased the bandits. He looks over his shoulder at Merlin and Mordred who are just watching and waves a hand impatiently. “Well, come on.”

They reach the widened portion of the passage, where Rosehip and Regal are – fortunately - still waiting. They look rather unconcerned for having been involved in a small battle just a few minutes earlier; Rosehip is standing with her head low, one rear hoof cocked and Regal is next to her, chewing on her saddle pad.   Beyond them some of the bodies are gone – likely those who were left alive managed to sneak away – but many still lay where Merlin’s magic left them.  Arthur ignores them, approaches his horse and rummages through one of the packs.

“Take this,” Arthur hands over something and Merlin catches sight of it as Mordred reaches out; it’s Arthur’s personal dagger. “Bring it to Camelot and show it to the guard at the gate. Ask him to bring you to Sir Leon. Tell him that I sent you there. I guarantee they will believe you.”

Mordred clutches the dagger to him as if it’s precious.  “I will, my Lord.  Thank you.”

“Will you be alright from here?”

“Yes,” Mordred nods. “We have horses, not far from here. I’m quite sure I can get back to them and slip away.”

Arthur holds out his arm and Mordred clasps it for a moment. “Good luck, then.” Arthur offers, sincerely.

Mordred nods. “Thank you, Sire.  And you, Merlin.” He extends the hand to Merlin and Merlin only hesitates a moment before grasping it.

“We’ll see you soon, Mordred. Stay safe.”

“You as well,” Mordred replies.  Then he’s off in a rush down the defile, hopefully keeping his word.

Once he’s out of sight, Arthur lets out a noisy sigh. “That was certainly surprising.”

Merlin can only nod.

“In truth, I’d wondered if we’d ever meet Mordred.  With everything so different, I wasn’t sure, but I’d hoped…”  He lets the unfinished thought hang in the air a moment.  “I hope we can help him.”

Merlin isn’t sure how to feel about this situation, but he nods dutifully nevertheless. In his dreams Mordred has become a Knight, and Arthur trusts him wholeheartedly and he’s done nothing – so far – to be undeserving of that loyalty.  But in his dreams Merlin still feels distrust toward Mordred.  And he’s never forgotten what Kilgharrah warned him of so long ago.  

Arthur must be relying on his own memories of things that never happened. Believing that he can trust Mordred fully because of them.

He hopes that Arthur’s right.

They spend a few moments checking over the horses, and each other (Merlin notices a dot of blood on Arthur’s collar and finds a thin scratch just behind Arthur’s ear. The beaded line of blood is already almost dry.  Arthur waves it away, blushing as he admits it came from falling stone and not from any bandit’s weapon) before they remount and resume their journey.

Merlin waits until they’re well clear of the Valley, riding once again along what one could sparingly call a forest trail, before he starts on Arthur with something that’s itching to be said.

“Arthur, are we going to talk about how foolish you were back there?”

Arthur doesn’t turn to look at him, but Merlin can almost picture the face he must be making.  “Foolish? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Back there, with the bandits.  Bad enough, you charging through all those men on your poor horse, but to go chasing after those that tried to escape.” He clucks his tongue.

“Merlin, shut-up.” He sounds amused, but there’s a sharp undertone to the words.

There was a time, before magic became a daily part of both their lives, that Merlin would’ve had to listen to that (not that he _always_ did). Since he’s become Arthur’s advisor, Merlin considers the words a suggestion, not an order.  “No, I’m serious, Arthur.  You took a ridiculous risk. You can’t just go charging after men who are trying to kill you like you’re some hot-headed Knight.  You have to think about your people and what you mean to them. You’re the King of Camelot.”

“Dammit, Merlin.” Arthur reins hard on Regal, spinning him in place a half-turn on his rear legs. The horse prances nervously in place while Arthur glares. His face is a mask of fury and something else Merlin can’t name.  “I _know_ I’m the King.  I _know_ what responsibilities I have to my people and my Crown. What I’m sick and tired of is people reminding me of it all the damn time.” He scowls, but doesn’t seem to be able to keep the anger going. “Now from you, as well…  Just, stop.”

Merlin knows he should bit his tongue. He knows better than to confront Arthur when he’s like this. He’ll never stop being himself though. Not with Arthur. “Arthur, please just—“

“No!” Arthur all but curses, vehemently and he swipes a hand through the air. “Dammit, Merlin, I’ve said stop. We’re done talking.”

He kicks at Regal again, and once he’s righted his direction on the trail spurs the horse into a pace that’s risky for the closeness of the trees. Merlin has no choice but to keep up.  


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the conclusion... Once again, weis07, it was a joy to write for you!

They reach the edge of the lake just at dusk. Moonlight reflects on the black water, dancing in luminescent patterns on a surface that’s stirred slightly by a night mistral. It’s too late to risk crossing the water, to say nothing of performing whatever arcane ritual or tasks the magic will demand of them.  Though he’s still not talking, Merlin knows Arthur would be in agreement on that. So he just follows as Arthur scouts a suitable place for them to rest.

They make camp in tense silence.  Merlin gets a fire going while Arthur stalks off into the woods without a word.  By the time he comes back, bearing a brace of pheasant, Merlin’s got stewed vegetables bubbling over the fire, has fed and watered the horses and is silently fuming as he moves from one task to the other.

Arthur hands the pheasants – surprisingly already plucked, gutted and spitted – over without a word.  Merlin doesn’t even look at Arthur as he takes care to stuff the cavities with some dried plums and wild onion and arrange the birds over the flames.  He minds their cooking, turning them occasionally, and only keeps track of Arthur’s presence by the sounds he makes throughout the space of their camp.  Rhythmic shushing noises tell him when Arthur’s cleaning his sword, and the soft scraping after that is the sound of leather (tack, perhaps, or Arthur’s swordbelt and sheath) being scrubbed at.

When the food is finally cooked Merlin just spoons stew into two dishes and carefully splits a pheasant down the middle, placing a half on each dish. Merlin hands Arthur his share, again, wordlessly.  They sit on opposite sides of the fire and eat the whole of their meal in that same, sullen silence.  And the food is good.  Merlin’s never lost his touch with a camp stew and the pheasants are crisp-skinned and succulent.   The fact that Arthur doesn’t even comment on _that_ says almost more than words could.

“What was with you today, Arthur?” Merlin finally blurts, when his dish has finally scraped clean using a heel of bread and put aside. “You _know_ I was right about the bandits? Why are you so angry at me for pointing it out? What did you mean about being always being reminded of being King?”

Arthur frowns at him. He picks up a stick, pokes it at the fire a few time. He tries to wave him off with a dismissive, “You wouldn’t understand, Merlin.”

“Try me,” Merlin retorts. He’s getting the feeling that there’s more to the root of this than just Arthur feeling hemmed in by the crown.

“I meant exactly what I said, Merlin.  There’s never a moment in my life when I’m anything other than the King of Camelot.  And it’s tiring sometimes.  And sometimes I’m reminded just how much I have to limit myself because of it.”

“So you what? Went chasing after bandits because you feel limited?”

“No.”  But Arthur’s headshake belies his words. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He runs agitated fingers through his hair. “I just did what I thought was right at the time.  I forgot, for a time, about anything else than doing what felt right.  And I don’t often get to do that.”

There’s something Merlin isn’t getting. “What? You don’t get to do what feels right?  But, what does that mean?”

“It’s just as simple as that. I’m a _king_ , Merlin. There are things that no matter how badly I want them I just can’t have.” He’s eyeing Merlin rather strangely as he says it. 

“Well that’s just silly.” Merlin protests hotly, feeling his cheeks grow warm under Arthur’s scrutiny. “What’s the good of being king if you can’t let yourself be happy while you do it? Why must you be miserable to be a king?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He pokes the stick into the fire, scattering flitting sparks and floating bits of ash.

“Just because your father was so unhappy for so long doesn’t mean you have to suffer as well.”

“Merlin,” Arthur growls, and Merlin knows he’s being warned by the tone.

Merlin can’t stop pushing this though. “You were going to try once, Arthur.  To be happy.  Back when you and Gwen were together, I know you wanted to damn all the rules once you took the throne. You started to do what was right, not just what’s expected of you.  Like with the Knights.” Then he adds, because Arthur’s eyes seem rather blank, “And I’m sorry, you know. That it didn’t work out for you and her.”

“I’m not,” Arthur replies sullenly, apparently willing to overlook how insubordinate Merlin is right now. “She and Lancelot belong together. Any fool could see that. I was a friend to her, and she to me, and we cared about one another.   That’s all we had between us.”

Merlin chooses to ignore that lie.  If that’s what Arthur needs to tell himself, then so be it. “But she wasn’t your only chance to be happy, Arthur. “  A sudden, niggling fear worms its way into Merlin’s brain. He peers at Arthur across the fire. “Is that why you want to fix this?  Our broken destiny.  Is it because you want things to end up the way they are in that life?”

From the truly flummoxed expression on Arthur’s face Merlin knows he’s wrong. “What?” Arthur blurts out, almost angrily. “You think I’d choose _that_ life over _this_ one?   A life where you’re still just my servant, and you have to hide your magic from me?  You think I’d trade the peace of my Kingdom and the happiness of my friends and the… the honesty between us now for the chance to be married to Guinevere?” 

“No, I –” Merlin starts to sputter, but Arthur cuts him off.

“I dropped everything last night, Merlin, left my Kingdom and my rule behind without a second thought, as soon as I learned about this. I didn’t do it because I long for that dream world. In fact I’m terrified that getting us back on track might lead to some of that life bleeding over once again.”

“Then why did you do it?” Merlin asks in a small voice.

“I did it because I hate what I know is missing. I hate this terrible emptiness in my whole being.  You’ve known about this bond between us from the beginning, Merlin. You’ve understood why one day things felt right and normal and then the next they were bleak and gray and the whole world just didn’t feel like it fit.”  He surges to his feet, tossing the branch into the fire.

Merlin flinches back from the spray of embers and by the time he’s done scrambling back and dusting himself off, Arthur is no longer on the other side of the fire.

He knows he should give Arthur some time; some space.  He calls himself every kind of idiot when he clambers to his feet and sets out after Arthur.  But that doesn’t stop him. 

Luckily Arthur isn’t trying too hard not to be found (not that Merlin would’ve had any trouble if he’d just used his magic).  Merlin just follows the sound of snapping branches and boots stomping through heavy brush.

“Arthur,” he calls out when he finally spots him slumped down on a tree that’s been toppled.  There’s moonlight filtering down through the treetops, playing over him in pale dapples that don’t quite chase away the shadows.  Merlin really wants to see his face for this. “Leoht,” he whispers.  The conjured ball of light at his fingertips starts out low and dim, but the intensity grows as he lifts his hand further.

Arthur flinches slightly and lifts a hand to block his eyes.

“Sorry.” Merlin offers, dimming it down some. “Should I get rid of it altogether?”

“No.” Arthur waves the offer away. “No, it’s fine.”

Merlin moves into the clearing, taking up a spot next to Arthur on the tree.   He doesn’t quite know where to start. He pushes the light away from him and then draws it close again. He can see in his periphery that Arthur is watching him. 

“I remember a ball of light guiding me once.” Arthur’s voice is odd.  Thoughtful, but somewhat distant. “It didn’t look quite like that… it was more like a sphere of swirling blue, leading me. Helping me when I thought I had no chance.  I never asked you about that, did I? I mean, even after I found out about your magic I never asked you if you were the one who helped me in the caverns of Balor.”

Merlin concentrates and the indistinct, diffuse glow almost solidifies into a floating, whirling orb like the one Arthur described. “Yeah, that was me.  Although, to be fair, I was unconscious when I sent it. I mean, there was the poison, of course,” he says, quite dumbly, because that’s why Arthur had been in the cavern in the first place. “I was dreaming about you, though.   Through the fever. And then I think my magic just… reacted when you needed help.”

“It was the bond between us, wasn’t it? That’s why you could reach me even when I was so far away and you were practically at death’s threshold?”

Merlin nods.  Because he has no doubt about that. Not anymore. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” Merlin says, putting as much of everything he’s feeling into the apology as he can. “I should’ve told you about our destiny much sooner.  I should’ve told you what the dragon said.   I guess I just thought it was…  I don’t know.” He shrugs, helplessly. “I thought it would happen as it was meant to. Once you knew about my magic, I thought it was just all falling into place.  Plus,” he adds, because this is the bigger truth, “I didn’t know how you’d react to finding out that your whole life was laid out for you.”

Arthur gives a snort at that, one that’s all bitter-tinged wry amusement. “Merlin, I’m a King and before that I was Prince and heir to the throne. I’ve never _not_ known what it was like to have no choice in my future.”

“I know,” Merlin agrees, “and I think, maybe, that’s why I didn’t explain it all. I just didn’t want you to feel that you had yet _another_ thing controlling your life, leading it down a predestined path.”

“It’s not the whole destiny thing that’s bothering me though, Merlin.”

Merlin turns to look at Arthur.  He’s staring straight ahead and the light still bobbing just inches from Merlin’s hand outlines his elegant profile sharply against the dark of the woods.

“It’s not?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No.  No, it’s the fact that if I’d known it would’ve explained… this.” He balls up his hand and presses it to his chest. “I’ve never understood this odd sort of emptiness, Merlin.  I thought it was just … my heart protecting itself from getting too close to anyone else.  I mean, I lost my father and Gwen and though Morgana’s back, and I do trust her now, I can’t bring myself to care for her as I should.” He sighs, heavily. “I just feel so distant from everyone, so lonely, and I couldn’t understand the reason for it.”

“Is that why…” Merlin starts, and then bites down on the question.

Arthur, unfortunately, isn’t one to let things just go either. “Is that why what?”

Merlin pushes the ball of light away from him, lets it float just above their heads.  He looks down at his hands, twisting them together in his lap. “Is that why you’ve pushed me away as well?”

He risks a sideward glance as he asks it and sees Arthur grimace. That’s telling enough.

“Probably, yes.” Merlin is surprised that Arthur lets himself admit it. “You were another in a long series of… changes, Merlin.  Of loss, I guess you could say.”

“What do you mean? You haven’t lost me.”

“Your magic, Merlin. Suddenly you weren’t this clumsy, idiot serving boy who polished my armor and cleaned my room and was always there when I needed you.” He spreads his hands, helplessly. “And I had to give that person up to let you be who you really are.”

“But you didn’t need to.” Merlin protests.

Arthur turns to him then and fixes him with a firm look. “Yes, I did.  Because I didn’t know about this thing inside of me, that it defined my very existence, that it was broken.”

“But I didn’t know it was broken either, Arthur.”

“Yes, but if you’d told me about it…” He sounds plaintive rather than angry. “If you’d told me that you’ve had the same emptiness inside of you, maybe we would’ve figured it out sooner. About this foretold bond being broken.  We could’ve fixed it.”

Merlin flounders a bit at that.  It’s a doubt that’s been plaguing him since Kilgharrah first told them of their changed destiny. “But didn’t you say, earlier today, that the other life we were supposed to have, that it seemed so dark and full of sorrow.   Aren’t you glad that we’ve missed out on so much of that pain?”

Arthur doesn’t answer for a very long moment.  Eventually he pushes himself off of the log and stands. “I think it would’ve been worth it, Merlin.” His hand goes up to alight against his breastbone again, just briefly, before falling back to his side. “I think that no matter what it meant, I’d have rather had this connection with you.”

On that he turns on a heel and makes his way out of the clearing.

Merlin sits there for a very long time, lost in thought.

When he gets back to their camp the first thing he notices is that Arthur has rearranged their bedrolls once again.  He tries to ignore that as he looks around for anything to do to that will delay sleeping as long as possible. Unfortunately it looks as though Arthur’s been quite efficient.  The horses have been fed and rubbed down, their stew pot and platters have been washed clean and the coals have been banked. 

Arthur is currently occupied with something over by their saddles. Perhaps repacking their gear yet again.  With nothing else to do Merlin heaves a sigh and then settles down on the thin pallet. He tugs his woolen blanket up to his shoulders and curls onto his side, facing the fire.

It’s not very long after that he feels Arthur settle behind him.  He’s fully prepared to ignore Arthur, until Arthur snugs up close behind him and bodily hauls Merlin back against him.  As Arthur wraps an arm around Merlin’s chest, he finally asks, “What are you doing?”

Arthur sounds completely unrepentant when he responds, “I’m starting the night off right. No more dreams tonight for either of us.”

“Arthur, you can’t be certain that just because you’re touch—“

“Shut up, Merlin. I am.”

Merlin knows better than to argue with Arthur when he’s like this.

“Fine then,” he reluctantly agrees (although perhaps not nearly reluctantly as he should be).   If this is how Arthur wants to play things, then Merlin will just have to play along.  He grabs at the arm that’s thrown loosely around his waist and tugs it higher and tighter and settles his head back against Arthur’s shoulder.  Arthur exhales once, sharply, into his hair and then relaxes against him.

Despite figuring that he’ll probably spent half the night wide awake, tense and miserable, Merlin eases into Arthur’s embrace and falls asleep within minutes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He rouses the next morning to Arthur’s voice, low and close, saying, “Merlin, c’mon.  Time to wake up.” 

There’s something soft pressing against his cheek. He rubs his face against it and slowly opens his eyes.   Through a sleepy haze he sees Arthur looking down at him from only a very short distance.   The pressure against his face, he realizes after spending probably far too long staring up at Arthur’s sun-touched blue eyes gazing down at him, is Arthur’s hand.  Arthur’s fingers curved gently along his cheek and the line of his jaw.

“Morning?” He murmurs, asking the question because his whole world is Arthur right at this moment.  He can make sense of nothing else.

Arthur nods. “Yeah, morning.” Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to Merlin’s lips.

It’s light; just a touch. The barest press of plush warmth that settles against him for a too brief moment and then withdraws. Merlin goes still.

Arthur draws back, eyes a little wild a little panicky. “I’m sorry, was that…?” he starts, already lifting his hand away from Merlin’s face, “unwelcome?”

“No,” Merlin gives a quick little shake of his head.  He clumsily untangles his hand from his blanket and grabs at Arthur’s fingers before they can pull away fully, pressing them back against his cheek. “No. It’s not.” He swallows.  He feels sleep addled and part of him wonders if he’s still dreaming. “I just… why? Why now?”

Arthur looks oddly grim for someone staring down at him so tenderly. “Because of what you said last night, Merlin.  About me allowing myself to have things I shouldn’t want.  And about finally letting myself feel something, despite the hollowness in my chest.” His fingers strokes down Merlin’s cheek, and along his jaw.  A thumb comes out to trace along Merlin’s lower lip. 

Merlin knows he’s dreaming… he has to be.  But as this is the best dream he’s had in a very long time, he doesn’t try to wake from it. “Oh.  That’s good.” He manages, a bit breathlessly. 

And as if Arthur is reading his mind, he asks. “Did you dream?”

It takes him a few seconds to come up with an answer – using his brain for anything other than concentrating on the feel of Arthur’s fingers, the remnants of his kiss – is almost impossible.   Eventually, though, it catches up and he shakes his head. “No.  No dreams last night.”

“Good.” The fondness on Arthur’s face goes a bit smug. “Me either. I’m glad that worked.”

He leans closer again and Merlin closes his eyes, lips parting just slightly in anticipation.  The kiss lands against his forehead this time though and when Merlin blinks up at him Arthur is pulling away and standing up. “We really do have to get up.”

He watches for a few minutes as Arthur stands and then makes his way across the camp.  He’s starting to pack up by the looks of it.  And he didn’t notice it earlier (probably due to the proximity of Arthur’s eyes and lips) but Arthur’s changed clothes and his hair looks damp.  Apparently he’s been awake long enough to have cleaned up in the lake. 

Merlin feels just slightly bitter that he wasn’t awake for that.

Grumbling under his breath he slowly makes it to his feet.  Yesterday’s antics with the bandits didn’t do his sore muscles any favors.  Plus he’s been on horseback for two days, and he got a little spoiled in the palace with regular hot baths.  He looks around, still bleary-eyed, and spots the grey-green shimmer of the lake.

Cold water sounds like a very good idea right now anyway. 

He’s got a change of clothes in his pack and he gathers them up with a cake of soap. He trudges the few dozen yards that separate their camp from a swath of sand and pebble beach.  “I’m going to clean up,” he calls over his shoulder and doesn’t wait for a reply.

The lake is shallow at the edge, so after he strips down quickly he wades in far enough out that he’s almost chest deep.  It’s just as bracing as he expected and he shivers while he hurries to scrub clean. One of his kerchiefs isn’t as nice as the soft cloths in the palace, but it lathers up well enough.  He dunks completely under once he’s done washing to rinse and comes up gasping.  He’s definitely wide awake when he’s done, and the icy water has tamped down his libido as well.

Although all the water’s effects in _that_ regard seem to vanish when Merlin starts his walk towards shore and sees Arthur there, waiting for him, holding a cloak.  Merlin sees it, and realizes he didn’t think to bring anything to dry himself.  That Arthur noticed and is waiting for him…  He doesn’t quite know what it means. He stops, the water just above his waist.

“C’mon, _Mer_ lin.” Arthur practically barks out the order. He seems oddly impatient. 

Merlin sighs and starts pushing through the water again, fighting not to drop his hands to protect his modesty.  Arthur _has_ to know that he wasn’t bathing in his small clothes for goodness sake!

He reaches the shallows and strides purposefully towards Arthur.  He doesn’t fail to notice when Arthur’s gaze travels down his body.  It’s not entirely the crisp morning air on his dripping skin that makes Merlin’s skin judder.  Arthur is there, stepping forward in an instant with the cloak and Merlin lets himself be wrapped in it.  Arthur doesn’t let go once the cloak covers Merlin’s shoulders, he just pulls Merlin closer.

“Thought, uh, you might be cold.” Arthur says hoarsely, rubbing at Merlin’s arms through the homespun wool. 

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, “thanks.”  And he’s still shivering, but he doesn’t feel the cold any longer. He leans into Arthur’s arms. “Sorry,” he says when he realizes that his hair is dripping onto Arthur’s tunic. “I’m getting you all wet.”

Arthur’s, “That’s alright,” is an almost soundless whisper.

He tilts his head and leans closer, eyes drifting closed just as his lips press to Arthur’s.  Arthur’s mouth is warm and his grip goes almost painfully tight on Merlin’s biceps. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says against his mouth.  He pulls away, and says it again. “Merlin, we can’t.”

Merlin’s heart feels like it plummets from his chest to the ground. “You don’t want this?” He asks plaintively. He’d been so certain, after the kiss this morning and now this whole scene with the cloak. The gentle but still very wanting expression in Arthur’s eyes had left Merlin convinced.

“Merlin,” Arthur pushes him away a fraction further. “I do.  I _do_ , Merlin, believe me; but we haven’t got time.”  That may be his excuse, but Merlin knows it’s because he’s already second-guessing his impulsiveness from this morning. He’s denying himself what he wants because he thinks he shouldn’t want it, or doesn’t deserve it. Which is just ridiculous.

“No, please,” Merlin protests, pulling Arthur back against him. “I don’t want to wait.” The words almost trip over each other as fast as he’s spitting them out. He knows he’ll only have a moment to convince Arthur and he wants to say as much as he can in that little time. “I want to do this _now_ , so that you know… that we _both_ know this isn’t just because destiny has made us something to each other. I want this to be because we found each other regardless of destiny.”

Arthur radiates indecision.  He glances over his shoulder, towards the keep that’s visible in the distance but his body presses closer to Merlin.

“We have time, Arthur.” Merlin says soft and urgent. “The only thing that’s pushing us to fix this so quickly is, well… us.  So, a delay, would that really be such a bad thing?”

Arthur turns his head back, and lets it drop to Merlin’s shoulder. “No.” He lets out a heavy sigh, his hot breath seeping through the cloak. “No it wouldn’t be a bad thing at all.” He lifts his head again to look into Merlin’s eyes. “Just tell me that you want this too. _Not_ ,” he insists before Merlin can readily agree, “because you know it’s what I want.  Or because you think it’s the only way we can be close again, or—“

Merlin silences his worrying with a kiss.  When he eases back from it, letting his lips linger against Arthur’s, he smiles.  “It’s something I’ve wanted for a very long time, Arthur.  Even when things changed for us, I never stopped wanting you.”

Arthur swallows heavily. “Good. That’s… good.”

And that seems to be all that Arthur’s waiting for. He reclaims Merlin’s mouth, fiercely. Kissing and coaxing Merlin’s lips to part with teasing of sweeps of his tongue.   It’s dizzying. Merlin clutches at Arthur’s arm, at his hip. His fingers clench and fist into Arthur’s tunic when Arthur’s teeth nip playfully at his bottom lip.  He angles his head back, exposing his neck when Arthur starts licking and biting a trail down the curve of his jaw and the line of his neck.   

“Here,” Arthur says almost breathless. He takes the cloak from around Merlin’s shoulders and lays it on the grass with a practiced flip and swoosh.  His smile, when he holds out a hand to invite Merlin to join him on it, is almost shy.

“This feels a little unbalanced,” Merlin tells him and steps closer to tug at Arthur’s tunic. “I’ve just come out of the water so I’m undressed, while you’re still wearing your tunic and trousers.”

“Perhaps you should undress me then.”

“Well, I’m not your manservant anymore, Sire.” Merlin replies cheekily, but his actions – tugging Arthur’s belt off and then yanking his tunic up as quick as he can manage – contradict his protest.  “But I suppose just this once…”

As soon as the cloth clears his arms, Arthur’s hands move quickly down to fumble with the ties of his breeches and he kicks his boots off.

Merlin has seen Arthur naked plenty of times.  Arthur’s confident in his body - rightfully so – and has never been shy about wandering around his room nude before or after a bath. Not to mention the fact that Merlin helped him dress for years.  But there’s something different about this, being naked with him, in the open air, with only the canopy of the trees to hide them.  Not to mention the both of them flush with arousal. It’s both more intimate and more exposed at the same time.

“Now come here,” Arthur instructs, taking Merlin by the wrist and pulling him close. The press of their bodies together – Merlin’s still chilled from the lake, and Arthur’s hot – is like fire meeting ice. They melt into each other, fitting together so perfectly.  Merlin kisses everywhere he can reach: Arthur’s lips, his neck, his collarbone, the point of his shoulder.  Arthur seems intent on mapping every part of Merlin’s body with the tips of his fingers, tracing them down the length of Merlin’s arms, tripping over his ribs, skating them back further still to slide over the swell of Merlin’s ass.

“Oh that’s right,” Arthur rubs a hand soothingly up over Merlin’s hip and down the back of his thigh. “Your bottom is sore from all that riding.” He trails his other hand down from Merlin’s chest, lingering around his belly a moment, and then cups his rear in both hands. He starts massaging the muscles there, digging his thumbs in just at Merlin’s lower back, squeezing and releasing with strong pulsing movements of his dexterous fingers.

Merlin groans, noisily. “Oh, forget about anything else,” he mutters into Arthur’s skin, blissful. “You can just keep doing that.”

“Just that? Nothing else, huh?” Arthur asks tartly, and pushes his hips forward at the same time the he kneads firmly into each cheek.  The pressure slides their cocks together and Merlin throws his head back with a breathy groan.

“None of that?” Arthur quips, although his voice is going higher and strained with each thrust of his hips.

Biting off a curse, Merlin somehow manages, “Uhhh, that’s nice too, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Arthur’s grip tightens and he tilts his head to catch Merlin’s eyes (which isn’t easy because they’re practically rolling back in his head in pleasure). “Oh, but how rude of me. I shouldn’t keep you on your feet when you’re aching so.”

Merlin doesn’t even know how he manages it, but somehow – without losing his hold– Arthur takes them both to the ground easily.  He ends up straddling Arthur’s waist and his hands come up to brace on Arthur’s shoulders. “Oh, I agree. That’s better,” he says, grunting as he presses back into Arthur’s hands when they begin massaging again.

Arthur hauls Merlin even further forward, so that Merlin falls against his chest, trapping Merlin’s cock between their bodies.  Merlin feels the hard press of something other than fingers slip between his cheeks.

“So, none of this?” Arthur thrusts up again, and the slide against his entrance makes Merlin shudder.

“Alright,” Merlin relents, whimpering when Arthur’s fingers start to tease inwards as well. “I suppose that…  that would be…” He bites his lip when one finger just barely breaches him, and hisses out a breath between the space where his teeth are pressed hard into his lower lip.

Arthur teases a few more moments, circling his fingertips, grazing his nails gently over the tender skin.  “I wish,” he says thickly, “that we had something… to use.   I’d like to… I don’t want to hurt you, but I want…” he doesn’t say what he wants aloud, letting the words get lost in a growl, but the finger presses in just a bit further and his hips thrust urgently.

Merlin wants that too. So badly he’s aching for it. For a minute he’s tempted to tell Arthur to just do it, but he’s got two more days in the saddle to look forward to and he’s never been all that fond of pain.  He’s just about to concede, suggest something else they might do, when a thought comes to him.

“Salve,” he remembers. “There’s salve in my pack.”

They both turn their heads to look across the campsite to where their saddles and bags lay piled in an orderly heap.

“All the way over there?” Arthur sighs melodramatically.

Merlin can commiserate. He doesn’t want to move away from Arthur, and the slick-slide of Arthur’s body beneath him for anything. “Wait!” Merlin says brightly. He practically has to pry a hand from its death grip on Arthur’s shoulder to extend it outward.  “Onbregdan,” he commands. 

The small, squat jar worms its way out of an outer pocket of the pack and flies across the space to smack against his palm. He catches it and holds it out to Arthur triumphantly.

Arthur removes a hand from Merlin’s thigh and takes it.  He stares at it oddly.

Merlin frowns at his scrutiny. “It’s just a mix of some oils and herbs and a bit of beeswax.” He explains. “It’s soothing on sore muscles and chafed skin.  What is it?” He finally asks when Arthur continues to stare.

Arthur shakes his head like he’s coming out of a daze.  He rests the salve on his chest a moment and reaches up to trace his fingers just over Merlin’s brow and then down his cheek.  “Your eyes are so amazing, the way they glow with gold.” The hand falls away and the reverence in his eyes become something entirely irreverent, “Plus, I think that perhaps _that_ is the handiest thing I’ve ever seen your magic do.”

Merlin laughs and it comes from deep within his belly.  Below him Arthur is chortling as well. Their laughter has an interesting effect on where their bodies press and rub together.  Merlin takes up the little glass vessel and holds it out to Arthur. “I think you should use this now,” he insist, humor receding in the onrushing wave of lust.

“Yes, right.” Arthur scrambles for it and then uses his teeth yank out the wax-sealed cork. He rests it back on his chest and dips two fingers in. Merlin lets out a whimper when he feels those fingers circle back around, no longer teasing just pushing in slowly and generously. Arthur comes back for more and when his hand goes back around Merlin’s backside, the motion of his wrist tells Merlin that he’s slicking himself up.

“Tingles a bit,” Arthur remarks absently.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees forgetting what he’s agreeing to only a moment after the word is out of his mouth.

“Ready?” Arthur asks, as serious as Merlin has ever seen him.

Forcing himself to focus, Merlin swallows around a dry throat and nods. “Yeah.”

Arthur takes Merlin by the hips and lifts him, and they groan and hiss in unison when Merlin slowly eases back down.  It burns and aches but Merlin just closes his eyes tight and blows out a slow, alleviating breath.  Every inch he slides down, takes into himself, loses some of that sharpness.   He scrabbles at Arthur’s shoulders and falls forward at the same time. He needs to kiss Arthur, to feel them connected everywhere.  Arthur meets his mouth just as desperately and hungrily and all the lingering discomfort is chased away by overwhelming passion.

“How’re you feeling?” Arthur asks after a few moments, once Merlin’s straightened back up and settled fully on his hips, gritting the question through clenched teeth.

“It’s good.” Merlin pants, sitting back further, letting himself adjust to the stretch and the fullness. “It’s a bit like riding a horse isn’t it. Same muscles,” he points out with a breathy sigh that earns him an equally winded chuckle.

“Oh,” Merlin says after lifting up and coming back down several more times, each a little harder and faster than the last, “but I’m going to undo all of your hard work on my poor backside.” Merlin demonstrates his meaning, rocking up in a slow move that pulls the well-rubbed muscles in his thighs taut, and then rolling his hips back down, clenching his buttocks as he does.

Arthur’s brows go up and he spits out a curse. He tightens his hands on Merlin’s hips again, each finger pressing in hard enough to bruise. A truly wicked grin curves the line of his kiss-reddened lips. “Oh really? Well we wouldn’t want that to happen, now would we?” He slides his hands up, wraps his arms tight around Merlin’s torso and manages to get them rolled over – Merlin onto his back, and Arthur still between his knees, still buried deep inside of him.   The cloak is even somehow still beneath Merlin’s back (although Merlin wouldn’t be surprised at some uncontrolled bursts of magic aiding them right now).

Arthur pulls out, almost completely and then slides back in, so very slow. “Why don’t you let me take care of you then?” He does something then, circling his hips in a motion that touches Merlin inside in a way that sets off sparks.

“Again,” Merlin barks out, “do that again. Please.”

“Pushy,” Arthur laughs airily. “But if you insist,” he says, sounding lazy and indulgent.  And he repeats the move.  Again, and again. It builds into a steadily increasing tempo that wants nothing more than to crescendo.

Merlin keens. “Oh god, Arthur.” The duality of Arthur rocking into him and his cock sliding against Arthur’s hard belly is too much. “I’m not…  it’s too… good,” he almost complains. “I won’t… last,” each word is whined and whispered as a counterpoint to Arthur’s thrusts.

“Oh thank god,” Arthur bursts out, voice cracking desperately. “I’m almost there, Merlin.”

“Yeah,” Merlin urges, “Yes, c’mon,” he goads, “yes, Arthur!”

Arthur works a hand between them; he barely gets his fingers wrapped around Merlin’s cock before Merlin’s spilling over them, hot and pulsing.  Arthur’s hips jerk once, twice more and then he goes all-over taut for a long moment and finally slumps forward, his weight collapsing on Merlin.

Merlin shifts, adjusting to it, getting comfortable and cradling Arthur’s body.  He aches all-over in the best possible way and feels utterly content. He presses idle kisses against Arthur’s sweat-damp brow and traces patterns on his back while Arthur pants into his neck.

“Perhaps the lake again?” Merlin suggests, once they’ve both caught their breath. Arthur has managed to roll off of him and they lay side-by-side on the cloak.

Arthur laughs, “Why yes, Merlin, I do think that would be a good idea.”

It’s probably fortunate that they’re both spent and the water is cold, because scrubbing each other off starts to get interesting.  But before Merlin can suggest delaying further, Arthur drags him out of the water, towels him off briskly with the cloak and then throws his clothes at him. They eat a quick breakfast and break camp shortly after that.

“We'll leave the horses here.” Arthur says, tying Rosehip and Regal in such a way that they’ll be able to graze, but also pull their leads free if they tug hard enough. “I assume we’ll be coming back here though?”

It’s almost a question, so Merlin nods. “Yeah, I would think so. I mean, I don’t know how long this will take, but we’re going to have to get back to Camelot somehow.” He doesn’t give voice to the fact that he has no idea what awaits them on the Isle.

~~~~~~~~~

There’s a small skiff tied to the short pier that juts out over the placid water.  Merlin looks around but there’s no sign of a ferryman. Morgana had mentioned there being one when she brought Morgause, but the first time Merlin came to the Isle he’d gotten across the lake using his own magic. “Come on,” he waves for Arthur to follow and climbs carefully down into the boat.

Arthur does and once they’re seated he glances about. “Uh, Merlin. How are we to get across? There are no oars.”

“Oh, well, the first time I was here I just did this.” He focuses his magic. “Astyre.” At the command the little boat starts to skim over the water, carrying them to the small island at the center of the lake.

“Once again I am given reason to appreciate the conveniences your magic provides.” His eyebrows waggle just a bit.

Merlin’s lips quirk in a small smile, but he doesn’t reply.  He does, however, keep shooting Arthur little looks from beneath his lashes, peeking up at him now and again.   The only reason he doesn’t feel foolish about doing it is because Arthur is not-quite looking at him in the same way, and every time their eyes meet, one or the other will smile or duck his head away. It’s a bit silly, Merlin knows, but this is new for them.

When the boat finally nears the ancient keep and bumps against the stone wall of the old fortress, near an open archway, Merlin grabs at the mooring there.  He ties off the rope that’s also connected to the bow of the little skiff, and then he and Arthur carefully climb out.

“Where too?” Arthur wonders, seemingly content to let Merlin lead.

“This way, I think.”

He takes them to the central courtyard where he’d faced down Nimueh rather than into the dark interior chamber he dreamt about on the eve of Samhain.  The flat stone altar is still there.  Whatever remained of Nimueh is long gone.   He approaches the altar and is about to tell Arthur about that day when the sound of screeching echoes somewhere in the ruins.

Arthur draws his sword, spinning in a circle with his eyes to the sky.  “Was that what I think it was?”

“If you’re thinking it sounded like wyverns, then yeah.” Merlin points past Arthur’s shoulder when the first of the small drakes swoops in.  It aims straight for Arthur, folding its wings at its side and arrowing down like a shore bird diving for fish.

Arthur turns sharply to face it, but Merlin is ready. He lifts a hand towards the creature and growls out, “S'enthend' apokhorein nun epello-o!”

The wyvern flounders in mid-air, scrambling, wings back beating frantically as it tries to flee.   It manages to turns before it reaches Arthur and ungainly flapping carries it back over the wall of the courtyard. 

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts the warning, looking past Merlin’s shoulder.

He turns to see a second wyvern stalking around the corner into the open aired space.  Merlin holds his hand out again and strides toward the beast.  “Nun de ge dei s'eikein kai emois epe'essin hepesthai! Ithi weas!”

The wyvern lowers its head, like a cowed dog and backs up several paces, before turning to flee the way it came. 

“What did you do?” Arthur asks, sounding slightly wondrous, from somewhere behind Merlin once it’s gone. 

“Ordered them away.  Wyverns are related to dragons, and I’m a Dragonlord, so they must obey me.” He turns, not quite fully as he wants to keep an eye on the doorway in case the wyvern comes back.

Arthur sheaths his sword but keeps a hand on the hilt as he makes his way back over to Merlin. “You know, that would’ve come in handy when we encountered those wyverns in the Keep of the Fisher King.” 

Merlin ducks his head. “Uh yeah, it did.”  He looks up after a moment to see Arthur grinning. It’s an easy, free smile.

“I should’ve known.” He says with a laugh. “You chased them away, didn’t you?”

Merlin nods. “When Gwaine and I separated, I found you unconscious.  Two wyverns were approaching so I sent them away.” He thinks back to the days, to finding the Fisher King still alive. “I don’t think I ever told you, about him. The Fisher King?” He tries to remember if, in all the hours of confessions and talks with Arthur about his magic, he ever explained this.

“You mean the legends of him?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head, a bit lost in the memory. “No, the man himself. He was still in the tower, still alive, when I got locked in the throne room.”

Arthur gapes. “How is that even possible?” He closes his mouth with a loud, popping sound and gives a rueful little grin. “Right, magic.”

“Yeah.” Merlin has to smile at that but it falls away when he explains, “He’d been alive that whole time, all those long years, waiting for me.  He told me that he could finally let go, because a new time was dawning; the time of the Once and Future King.” He gives the words the weight they’re meant to carry.  

Arthur thinks quietly on that for a few minutes. “Going to the Perilous Lands and seeking out the trident. That was for you, not me, wasn’t it?” He finally asks.  “I mean, that’s the reason I was given the vision of that quest, because it was our destiny to go there together.”

Merlin shoots a guilty little look down at his feet. “Yes.”

He hears Arthur sigh. “There are so many things I must look back on with a different perspective.  I thought I was already done with that.” He doesn’t sound so much frustrated as amused, but Merlin isn’t following his meaning.

“What do you mean?”

Arthur gestures towards him. “When I found out about your magic.  It made me reconsider so many things that had happened to me.  To us.  I just never thought I’d have to think about them again and how this fate of ours probably played a hand.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says frankly, “I think that would be a waste of your time. I think every thing that ever happened to us from the very moment we met was to do with our destiny. Hell, everything that led up to our meeting as well.”

Looking over once again, Merlin sees that Arthur is frowning.  More than anything he doesn’t want to force Arthur to accept a destiny he does not want. He doesn’t want to tie Arthur to him if that’s not what Arthur wants.

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” Merlin offers. “We could just leave this place.   I mean, we seem to be doing well enough on our own, without some mystical bond, no matter what Kilgharrah says.” He forces a smile. “And if bad things happen, we’ll face them, together, as it should be.   I won’t leave your side, Arthur. No matter what.”

Arthur nods his head while Merlin speaks, like he’s considering it. Then he slowly walks over, crossing the space between them in a few easy strides. “But then I won’t be this ‘Once and Future King’ that everyone seems to be talking about, will I?”  There’s an odd gleam in his eye.  He stops, just a hand-span away from Merlin and reaches out to take his hand.

“I don’t think so.” Merlin has to admit.

“And, what if you’re like that Fisher King. A Sorcerer so tied to this future Albion that you end up trapped here, like him?” His fingers interlace with Merlin’s.

Merlin’s never really thought about that.  The second admission doesn’t come as easy. “I don’t know. I mean, that could be.”

“Doesn’t the very name, ‘Once and Future King’, suggest to you that if I give up on our destiny, I’d leave you alone in this world.” He draws Merlin’s hand up to his mouth. “And that if I see our fates rejoined, then I’m bound for a future with you in it?” He presses a kiss to Merlin’s knuckles.

Merlin’s heart sort of stutters in his chest while his voice does some stuttering of its own. “Uh..ye.. yes? I suppose it does.” He has to blink a few times to clear the sudden sheen that’s misted over his eyes.

“I think you’ve answered you question then, Merlin. Of course we’re going to do this.” He uses his hold on Merlin’s hand to tug him close and captures Merlin’s lips with his own.

Merlin really absolutely does not swoon into the kiss.

He is, however, quite breathless when he finally draws away. “Uh, good.  That’s good. Glad we’ve got that settled.” 

Merlin forces himself back two steps. “Sorry,” he says, genuinely regretting the need for the space. “The uh, spell. I don’t really know what it’s going to do.” He frowns. “Kilgharrah did warn that it would be dangerous.” He wonders if Arthur is as nervous about this as he is. It’s not the rekindling of their destiny that leaves him anxious, but the magic that’s required to do it. 

Arthur nods decisively. “I’m willing to take that risk if you are, Merlin.”

Again, there’s that flush of warmth, that promise of fullness in the empty space deep within him.  Like his magic is just waiting for something to latch onto.  Merlin doesn’t trust his voice so he just nods.   For some reason it feels ‘right’ to be near the altar so he sidles closer to it. Then he reaches within himself, finding the magic that Kilgharrah imparted. He draws on it, lets it out in bursts of harsh, guttural words that spill off his tongue, pouring into the courtyard, filling it with sound.

There’s a rushing torrent of on the heels of the last syllable, like a thunderous serpent-cloud roiling over the land. Merlin braces himself for its impact. He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fist at his side, waiting for something to come rushing at him.

Nothing happens.

He slowly opens one eye and then the other.  Arthur is still standing just where he’d been before Merlin started the spell. He’s eying Merlin slightly dubiously.

“That’s it?” He wrinkles his nose.

Merlin does not glower, but it’s a close thing. “Yes. At least I think so.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I felt my magic do something.”

“And indeed it did, Emrys.”

Merlin whirls around at the voice, and Arthur is at his side in half a heartbeat. He draws his sword and holds it defensively in front of Merlin.

“Who’re you?” Arthur bites out.

The man standing at the far end of the courtyard looks older than even Merlin does when he dons the guise of Dragoon.  He’s similarly bearded and wizened and dressed in a simple white robe.  He spreads his hands beatifically. “Who I am is not important, Arthur Pendragon.” The man says, smiling gently as he does so.

Arthur cants his head closer to Merlin. “Why do these mysterious figures always know our names?” He’s not exactly whispering, but it’s clear he doesn’t mean for the words to carry.

Which, of course, means that the stranger hears them. “Because yours are names writ in the very fabric of the world, King Arthur.  They are known to all who can read them in its’ earth and stone and water and wind.”

“May we have a name to call you?” Merlin asks, because he can feel Arthur tensing up beside him.  For all that he’s used to Merlin and his magic, Arthur still doesn’t always react calmly to strange Sorcerers.

“You will not have time to need it, Emrys. I am only here to tell you of the task that awaits you both.”

Knowing the futility of pressing, Merlin just inclines his head. “Alright. What is this task?”

“You are to be judged.”

“Judged? By who?”  Arthur asks suspiciously. “And for what?”

The man holds out both hands, gesturing loosely in the space around him. “By the very fates, by the substance of this world, by the source of all magic.”

“That’s no answer.” Merlin protests. “What exactly are we to be judged on?  I was told that the purpose of this spell was to bind two practitioners of the Old Religion together.” He wishes he’d given the words more thought, because now he wonders what that really means.

“Oh, it does more than that, Emrys. In days long past, only those who were absolutely true to one another, who had no boundaries between them, who wished to share all that they were with each other, would undertake the risks inherent in this magic.  If they succeeded, it not only gave them access to each other’s power and strength, but tied their lives together in an unbreakable bond.” A thick grey brow lifts, “They become two halves of the same whole; one cannot exist without the other.”

It sounds to Merlin like half magical binding, half wedding ceremony.  He wonders if Arthur is picking up on those implications as well?

From the way Arthur just asks, “What risks?” he doesn’t think so.

“If you go to be judged and are found unworthy, your lives will be forfeit.  If one of you is worthy, but the other not, you will still fail and you will both die.”

“What?” Merlin gapes. “That’s crazy.”

“It is the ultimate display of faith, Emrys.”

Merlin wants to protest. It’s too much. Too great a risk. He can’t ask Arthur to do something so impossible. 

But Arthur is already asking. “So what must we do?”

The old man seems pleased by Arthur’s question and his wizened face splits in a broad grin. “You must open yourselves to each other. Bare your hidden truths.  Only when nothing lies between you may your souls truly be joined.”

“That’s it?” Arthur asks, pressing his lips together and quirking them to the side dubiously. “Just tell each other the truth?”

The ancient figure smiles again; it’s weirdly enigmatic. “Oh, young King. If only it were that easy. For there are some truths that are not meant to see the light of day, and others still that are sharper than any sword.  Truths can break you apart, bear you open for all to see.   But there can be no secrets between you. No deceit in your hearts.  When you leave this place and enter the beyond, it must be with your souls as known to each other as is humanly possible.”

“Um, but that’s just it.” Merlin has to interject.  For all that Arthur is puzzled by the simplicity of the task, Merlin is terrified of it. “How will we know what we’ve still to share? I mean, what if we miss something? Not out of any wish for deceit or wish to hide, but simply because it’s long forgotten.” He waves at himself. “I mean, there were things I kept secret for many years about my magic, but even when it was finally revealed, I don’t know if I ever shared everything.” In fact, Merlin knows he hasn’t.  Not out of any wish to keep deceiving Arthur, but because there was just too much to remember.

“The judgment isn’t based on your memory, Emrys, but your intent. If there are secrets you withhold simply because you do not recall their existence, well… they’re hardly secrets anymore. But if you keep something back, something deliberately withheld, then that will affect the judgment.”

“So once we’ve done this,” Arthur makes a gesture between himself and Merlin. “Once we’ve shared all there is to share, what must we do?  Do you make the final judgment? How will we know if we’re ready?”

“The answer to that is simple, young Pendragon. When you feel ready, when you feel that you are bared to each other with no secrets between you, you will simply walk through that doorway, one and then the other.” He nods to the far wall of the courtyard. There’s a simple stone archway in the middle of it. Merlin squints at it, but can’t see anything special about the doorway itself, or what lay beyond. “If you both come through the other side, then you will know you’ve succeeded.”

Well that sounds rather final.  He has to wonder if they’re already too late to back out. 

Naturally the old man has an answer for even that unspoken question. “Should you decide not to undertake this trial, then you may simply leave the way you came.” He waves an arm towards the other side of the courtyard, where they’d first entered the open space.

“That’s it?” Arthur asks. “We can just walk away?”

The old man nods. “Yes, of course.  You are not bound to do this, simply because you inquired about the possibility.”

Arthur’s frowning. “If we _were_ to change our minds, to walk away, what then? What becomes of the destiny that was supposed to bind us?”

“That, I cannot say, young Pendragon.” The old man responds with an apologetic shrug. “Your lives will be your own, as they are now, with no requirements upon the other.  How this will play out for either of you is unwrit, and therefore unknown to those of us who are able to read such things.”

Merlin nods, thinking already of all the things he and Arthur will have to discuss before they even make a decision to go ahead.

“Just a few more questions,” Arthur presses, “before we begin.” 

Merlin jerks his head around to stare at Arthur. Before they begin? It sounds like Arthur’s already made up his mind.

“Of course,” the Old man invites.

“If we leave this place, and come back, will the um…magic…,” he nods towards the doorway, “the spell still be active?  I mean, should we need to leave the island for any reason.”

“If you both leave here the magic of this spell will end. As long as one of you remains, the doorway will remain a portal.”

Arthur accepts that with a nod of acknowledgement. “And will you be here? I mean, while Merlin, uh… Emrys, and I are doing all of this truth sharing?”

The old man shakes his head, smiling once again. “No, for the truths you must share are yours alone.  If you have need of me, Emrys need only summon me again.”

“Very well then,” Arthur inclines his head again. “I think that’s all we need to know.” He turns to look at Merlin, lifting his eyebrows in question. “Merlin?”

Still rather caught up in the fact that they seem to be going ahead with this, Merlin just nods. “I have no other questions.” Which isn’t necessarily true. He has a plethora of questions clawing at the back of this throat, asking to be let out, but they’re for Arthur, not this elderly sage or guide or whatever he is.

“Very well,” the man intones. “I shall leave you then.  Good luck to you both.”  He turns away from them and shuffles forward a few steps, and between one shuffle and the next, he just fades from view.

“Well,” Arthur says, looking a little dumbfounded. He turns to Merlin. “What now?”

“Now?” Merlin says, “we start talking.” Looking around, there’s little more than some tumbled stones and the altar in the courtyard.  So he just drops to the grass where he’s at, putting his back against the cold stone. “We should probably get comfortable.” Merlin suggests. “I suspect this might take a while.”

“So how do we start?” Arthur asks once he’s settled on to the grass next to Merlin. The sun is still low, still not high enough to show over the walls of the keep. In their shadow the air is cool, and the breeze fresh.

“Let me start,” Merlin offers. “I think there’s something I need to say.  Something that I’ve needed to say for a long while. I’ve tried to tell you some of this, and I don’t know how much Morgana has told you, but I need for this to be known between us.”

Arthur cants his head to the side, eyes wary. “What is it, Merlin? It sounds like you’re about to confess to murder.”

Merlin almost jumps at that.  Sometimes it’s eerie how perceptive Arthur is, how well Arthur can read him. If he didn’t know their destiny was fractured, he’d suspect some otherworldly influence as the source of Arthur’s insight.

“So you know from Morgana herself about how she first discovered her own magic and then how she met Morgause.” Arthur nods to confirm. Merlin knows that Morgana has told him quite a bit about those first days when her magic first made itself known.  But he doesn’t know the rest of it. He takes a deep breath and then on the exhale he all but blurts, “What you don’t know is that I was the reason that Morgause took Morgana away in the first place. I’m the reason that she betrayed us under Morgause’s influence.”

Arthur frowns. “How can you say that?”

“Because when Morgause tried to destroy Camelot with the Knights of Medhir and she cast that spell of sleeping over everyone Morgana _didn’t_ take a potion to stay awake. The spell didn’t affect her because _she_ was the source of it. Morgause used her life-force to bind the spell.”  He chokes on the next words. “The only way to break the spell, to save the King and Camelot and you, was to kill Morgana.”

“But you didn’t,” Arthur protests, face screwing up fretfully. “Morgause took her.”

“I did, Arthur. I poisoned her.  I filled a waterskin with hemlock and bade her drink it.  When Morgause showed up, she traded me the name of the poison I’d used in exchange for stopping the Knights and lifting the spell.  When you came back into the room it was after Morgause had done as I asked, but Morgana was still dying. That’s why Morgause took her away. It was to save her life.”

Arthur slumps heavily against the altar. He looks at Merlin with an inscrutable expression, one lip curled in what could be confusion or derision or disgust. “Does Morgana know this?”

He nods. “Yes, of course.  She knew it then. When it happened.” He squeezes his eyes shut at the memory. “I held her, as she was dying and she clung to me and pushed me away, all the while she was struggling. I don’t think she truly knew what Morgause had done. At least not then.”

“And later?” Arthur asks, so tonelessly Merlin can’t read anything from it. “After she returned?”

“When we found her… well, when she and Morgause arranged for her to be found, she told me she forgave me for it.  Of course, she was lying.  And she ended up betraying us all.” He sighs.

“How much did you know?” Arthur asks after sitting silently for a very long time.  “I mean, about her betrayal.  How soon did you know she was in league with Morgause?”

Merlin thinks back on it. “It was not long after she was back. At first I was so afraid that she was going to tell everyone about what I did. And then I went to see her and she forgave me, and for a short time I thought that she really was okay.”

“What clued you in?”

“It was what happened to your father. The enchantment that made it seem like he was going mad.  It used mandrake root. I found it under Uther’s bed and then Morgana came in while I was still in the room, so I hid under there.  She reached under and took the root away so I knew she was behind it.” He shakes his head ruefully. “And then I did something stupid.”

Arthur actually gives him a mock look of surprise. “You, really?”

Merlin scowls with no heat behind it. “Yes, really. I followed Morgana into the woods and saw her meeting with Morgause.  But she found me there, and she and Morgause bound me in magic chains and then summoned serkets.”

“What are serkets?”

Merlin shudders. “They’re like giant scorpions. They’re beasts of dark magic that have a terrible sting. They surrounded me and I was stung.  But I managed to summon Kilgharrah to me before the poison took hold. Kilgharrah saved me.  And then I came back to Camelot and Cenred’s army attacked and there were the undead…” He makes a flipping motion with his hands. “And you know the rest. Well, perhaps except the part that it wasn’t Morgana who destroyed the vessel that was controlling the undead. She was the one who summoned them, but I stopped her.” He grumbles under his breath about never receiving proper credit when Arthur doesn’t seem to be listening.

“So that’s where you were?” Arthur says, snapping his fingers and pointing suddenly. “You went missing for nearly two days. I thought you’d been in the tavern.”

“You know, Arthur,” Merlin grumbles, “almost every time you ever accused me of being in the tavern, I was actually running around trying to save your life.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “ _Almost_ every time?”

Merlin just shoots him a dark look and Arthur bares his teeth in a smarmy grin.

It doesn’t stay for long though, and he sighs.  “I hate this,” he says petulantly. “So many things I look back on and say, ‘if only’.  If only you’d felt that you could tell me the truth. If only we’d known about Morgana’s betrayal sooner.”

“You can’t do that to yourself, Arthur. Trust me; I’m all too familiar with asking myself ‘what if’.” He shakes his head wildly. “It’s enough to drive you mad.”

“So, that’s one truth revealed.” He says lightly, like the weight of Merlin’s admission isn’t still sitting heavily between them. “Have any more?”

“What about you, Arthur?” Merlin grumbles, feeling a tense knot in his belly. “I’ve been spilling my guts here. You must have some truths of you own you want to share?”

Arthur swallows hard. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea?”

Merlin sniffs, trying not to feel bitter. “Oh, I see. Use this opportunity to learn my secrets and then don’t allow me the same?”

“No,” Arthur protests, “No it’s not that, Merlin. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You have to Arthur. That’s the whole point of this.  Our truths aren’t going to be pleasant.” He huffs out something that’s not quite a laugh. It’s too choked and angst-ridden for that. “As I’ve already proved.”

“You’re right.”  Arthur swallows, and then nods. “Alright, I have something…  please, try to understand that this,” he grabs at a handful of grass and yanks it out angrily. “It’s not something I think about every day. And I hate myself that this doubt exists within me, but I cannot help it.

Merlin braces himself mentally; steeling himself for something he knows is going to hurt.

“I have sometimes doubted…” he blows out a breath through his nose. “I’ve questioned whether or not you really tried as hard as you could to save my father.”

The words cut Merlin sharper than any knife or dagger. But at the same time he’s not surprised by them.  The reveal of Merlin’s magic only happened because of Uther’s assassination.  It was so much for Arthur to face, all at once, that Merlin can’t blame him for doubting…  Still, it stings like any sword cut might.

“I think I did, Arthur.” It’s the truth.  At the time he was convinced he did all he could. He’s second-guessed that since, but he knows with absolute certainty that he did not let Uther die on purpose.  “No matter my feelings about your father, I only wanted to save him. I tried everything I knew.  Looking back, I wish I’d known more of healing magic, but at the time I put everything I had into the healing. I wanted him to live.”

Arthur looks anguished. Like he wants to believe but just doesn’t know how. “But how can you say that, Merlin? If he’d lived, even if you’d been the one to save him, you’d likely have been imprisoned or even put to death.”

Merlin nods. “I know that. And I knew it at the time. Gaius was so angry with me for coming forward.  We tried to come up with a way to help him without giving me away.” He sighs. “But then Morgana’s magic failed, and we ran out of time, and the only thing I could do was to come forward with my magic and try to save his life.”

“Why?”

“Why did I try to save your father?” Merlin isn’t sure what the question means.

“Yes.  You had to have hated him. For what he did to anyone with magic. And if you’d not come forward, if you hadn’t told me of your magic, he’d still have died and your secret would still be yours.”

“Because he was your father, Arthur. I knew how much pain it would cause you to lose him. I wouldn’t have put you through that for anything. 

Arthur’s, “Oh,” is soft and vulnerable.

“I hate that I couldn’t save him for you. And I’m sorry.”

Arthur’s fingers catch at his, tugging them over the grass to twine together. “Thank you for that.”

Merlin clenches at Arthur’s hand. Just a quick squeeze because his next truth isn’t going to be easy. “I’m sorry, for you, that he died, but I’m not sorry he’s gone.”

He waits, for Arthur’s fingers to be snatched away, for the anger and the recrimination.

It’s more than a little surprising when Arthur just sighs wearily and says, “I don’t blame you for that.”

Merlin has to look at him. Arthur’s staring down at his lap, and his brow is furrowed. “You don’t?”

Arthur’s head gives just the barest jerk from side to side. “No. He was awful to you. To Gaius. To practically everyone. And he did terrible things. I loved my father. Losing him was one of the hardest things I’ve been through, and maybe this is a truth I need to admit to myself, but I can’t live the life he wanted for me.  I do know that, but it doesn’t keep me from second-guessing every decision I make and wondering how much my father would hate what I’ve done.”                                          

“You shouldn’t think like that, Arthur. You cannot try to please a dead man. I know that you want to live up to your father’s expectations of you, but if you continually try, you’ll never be happy. You need to live your own life, and trust that you are doing what is right for you.  I think your father would understand that, don’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t answer him. “You never knew your father, did you?”

Merlin swallows.  He’s never told Arthur of Balinor.  When he told Arthur the truth of his magic and of his abilities as a Dragonlord, he only said that it was an ability passed down from his father. He never explained how the process worked.  As the truth came to light it was so tied to Uther’s death that Merlin never wanted to burden Arthur with the knowledge of his own father’s passing.  “I knew him only briefly,” Merlin counters. “And, you met him as well.”

Arthur frowns. “I don’t know what you…” He trails off mouth falling open. “Balinor.” He says, with certainty. “Balinor was your father.  That’s why you couldn’t order Kilgharrah away until after we’d found him.”

Merlin swipes a quick hand – the one that’s not being squeezed in Arthur’s – over his eyes.  “Yeah.  The magic of a Dragonlord is passed from father to son only upon death.” 

“Oh, Merlin.” Arthur uses the hold on Merlin’s hand to tug at him, to bring him close so he can get arms around him. “I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known.”

“I wanted to tell you.” Merlin sniffles into Arthur’s tunic. “Gaius said that I shouldn’t. That Uther would view the son of a Dragonlord with as much suspicion as the Dragonlord himself.”

Arthur’s huffs out a sigh into Merlin’s hair, just behind his ear. “My father hunted yours down…  How do you not hate me for that?”

“The same way I don’t blame you for any of the other horrible things your father did in his fear and hatred of magic.  You’re not your father, Arthur. You are your own man and,” he hesitates only briefly, “and sometimes I think you live too much in his shadow.”

Again, Arthur surprises him by nodding. “I know.  I do know that, Merlin. It’s just so hard, sometimes, to move past how I felt as a boy. I wanted him to be proud of me, to respect me and yet I never felt like I was anything but a disappointment. There are so many times I’ve questioned the decisions I’ve made, the rules I’ve changed, because I know my father would disagree.”

He gives a broken little chuckle. “I don’t always get it right. I know that. Sometimes the voice in my head that’s my father is just too loud, too persistent to ignore.  But I try to do what’s right.” Merlin feels a soft kiss pressed to his skin. “You help me with that, you know.  Even when I was still a Prince and you were still my manservant, I _did_ listen to you.” He can feel when the lips curve into a smile. “I may not have always admitted it, but I did listen.”

Merlin sighs wistfully. “I do still sometimes miss that, you know.  I wasn’t kidding before.”

Arthur draws back and tilts Merlin’s chin up so he can look him in the eye. “Being my servant?”

“Yeah.”

“But, things were so unequal between us.  And all that armor polishing. How could you miss that?”

Merlin shrugs. “Sometimes, even amidst all the chores and the yelling and the saving your life, I was never happier than when it was just you and me.  And I miss that lately.”

Arthur gives a suspicious sounding sniffle.  He rushes out a quick laugh to cover it up. “Well, I can’t blame you for that.  But still, I hardly ever gave you the appreciation you deserved.”

“Is that you’re way of admitting you sometimes treated me quite badly?” Merlin asks, and he’s smiling, but there’s no hiding the truth of it.

Arthur doesn’t drop his gaze. “Yes. It is. I was, on occasion,” he allows, “perhaps not the nicest person.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Not the nicest? Arthur, you were a complete clotpole sometimes. Not to mention a prat.”

“Alright,” Arthur concedes with a miniscule shrug and much more obvious grin, “I may have been a prat at times.  But I was much worse before you came along.  You called me on things that made me reconsider my actions and made me hold a mirror up to myself. I didn’t always like what I saw.”  

From the way that Arthur’s gaze suddenly shutters Merlin knows there's something big that Arthur’s still holding back.  He leans forward, presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips and then backs off. “It’s okay, Arthur. You can say it. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

“Alright,” Arthur swallows. “Here it is. The truth.” He shifts back, looking Merlin directly in the eye once again. “There’s a part of me that’s still angry, still hurt that you lied to me for so long.  I don’t know how much of it is at you for keeping the truth from me, or at myself for not realizing what was happening right beneath my nose, but even though I’ve told you I’m perfectly okay with everything, I’m not.”

He huffs out a rough sigh when he’s done, like expelling that truth took physical effort. 

“I’m sorry,” he adds, like this is some great failing on his part.

“But why?” Merlin has to ask. “Why should you be sorry?  I understand, Arthur. I do.  Why wouldn’t you still be angry, still be upset?” Merlin gulps down against the lump in his throat. “The first few years of our relationship, our friendship, were just full of lies.”

Arthur shakes his head. “But I know _why_ you did it, Merlin. I mean, in those first few weeks and months, I’d probably never have questioned it if you were found out and my father ordered your death.  You had to keep your secrets, to protect yourself.  And you stayed in Camelot to protect me.  And I should be able to forgive you for it.”

“Oh, Arthur.  I never expected you to just forget everything.  I know there were so many secrets and so many lies.  The fact that you’ve tried to move past it all is amazing enough.  And frankly I’m glad we’re here, doing this, because I don’t want there to ever be secrets between us again. Lying to you was sometimes the hardest thing I had to do.”

“I think I should be grateful for all the times you did.” Arthur says with only a trace of irony. “And if there’s ever anything that comes up that makes me feel this way again, I won’t keep it to myself. I won’t let it keep me from being with you, as I’ve done in the past few… months, years. I don’t really know.”

Merlin hears everything he says but one part in particular catches his attention. “Being with me?” he repeats, coyly because he’s been a little afraid to question what the past few days have meant for their relationship _apart_ from destiny.

“Yes. What happened between us this morning,” Arthur begins, and a pink hue sweeps up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I’ve wanted that for a very long time.”

Merlin feels his own face flush with the memory of it.  His muscles are still aching pleasantly. “Me too,” he agrees.

Arthur smiles fondly. “Not just the… sex, but all of it. Kissing you awake, sleeping beside you.  I want it.  I mean, even when we return to Camelot, I don’t want to lose this with you.”

“Nor do I.” Merlin agrees eagerly. “In truth, it’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, Arthur.”

Arthur grins. “I’ve thought of you like that for probably longer that is right to admit.  I think sometimes, even before the magic came between us, that I pushed you away or treated you poorly because I didn’t know how else to deal with what I was feeling.”

“I understand that, Arthur,” Merlin huffs out a laugh.  “I used to tell myself that you hated me and that I could never be attracted to anyone who was so frustrating and aggravating.  But even my own Mother saw past that. She told me that you came to Ealdor that time because you cared for me.”

Arthur nods. “I did. And I cared for the people there, and wanted justice for them. But, it was because it was you.   I didn’t want to lose you, you know.  When you told me you didn’t know if you’d be coming back. I thought that if I could help, if I could make things right, then you wouldn’t have to stay away.” He shakes his head, scoffing at himself. “Of course, I’d never have admitted it back then.”

“Of course not.”

Arthur looks over at him. “Is that when your Mother remarked on our destiny?”

“Yeah,” Merlin nods. “Even she could see it. We were like two sides of the same coin, she said.  And I just laughed at her because it was the same thing Kilgharrah had told me. Felt a little funny coming from my Mother.”

“I’m glad I’ve got her approval.” He preens.

That makes Merlin roll his eyes. “Of course you do. Handsome, dashing young prince coming to the rescue?  What’s not to approve of? She even used to chastise me in her letters, when I’d written to her about what a prat you were being.” He scoffs. “My own mother.”

Arthur laughs, but it’s softer now. “It’s nice to have a mother’s affections. I envy you that.”

That brings something to mind that Merlin knows he needs to share.  “Um, there’s something else I need to tell you. This isn’t necessarily my secret, but I know the truth of it and you should too.”

Arthur surprises him by saying, “Is it about my mother?”

Merlin nods. “Yes.”

Arthur’s face is grim but he nods. “I’ve long suspected that what Morgause showed me was the truth.  That really was my mother, wasn’t it? I mean, Morgause summoned her from the realm beyond?”

“I think so.” Is all that Merlin can offer. “I don’t know how she did it, or how much of her own influence might have colored what your Mother said. But Gaius did tell me that much of what she said was true. Your father did ask him to go to Nimueh, to beg her for help.”

Arthur curses under his breath. “And still I believed my father when he lied to me and told me that he wasn’t responsible for her death. He told me he loved her and would never have done anything to hurt her.”

“Arthur, I don’t think he did lie. I think he was telling the truth about that.”  At Arthur’s doubtful frown he presses, “Did I tell you what happened to Nimueh.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, dragging at the corners of his mouth. “You killed her. You said she was responsible for the Questing Beast and that you killed her to save me.”

Merlin nods. “Yes, but there’s more to it than that.  You see, when I first came here. To this very spot on the Isle, I faced Nimueh and bargained for your life.  I told her I would pay her cost if she saved you.”

“And what was this cost?”

“My life.”   

“You offered your life for mine, even then?” Arthur shakes his head in disbelief.

“I had to, Arthur. It has ever been my destiny to save you.  But listen,” he goes on before Arthur can say anything else. “The magic didn’t chose me. The magic of the Old Religion, it demands a sacrifice. A life for a life.  It wasn’t _me_ the magic chose though, it was my mother.”

“What?” Arthur jerks back, horrified. “But she’s alive.”

“Yes,” Merlin nods hurriedly. “You see, she came to Camelot that same night you recovered. She was terribly sick and was dying. So I was going to come back here, and sacrifice myself to _make_ the magic take me. Then Gaius tried it instead. He slipped out in the night and came here to bargain with Nimueh.   When I arrived, he was almost gone and she wouldn’t let me trade my life instead of taking his. So I fought her and I killed her, and the magic was satisfied.”

"So, you see, it’s the magic that chose your mother.  I don’t think your father intended to sacrifice your mother to see you born. I think he asked Nimueh to use her magic, and he just did it selfishly, without ever considering that your mother would be the price.”

Arthur is silent for a few moments and then he shakes his head, looking a little wild around the eyes. “Even after everything he did, you’re still defending my father.”

“It’s not your father I’m concerned about, Arthur. It’s you. I don’t want you to ever think that you being born was the cause of anything else. Hell, you might as well blame this destiny of ours. If our lives have been written for the ages, then perhaps it would have happened that way no matter what.”

Arthur frowns. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“Me either.”

“But I don’t think we should think of it that way, Merlin.” He gives his torso a shake, like he’s shedding the weight of everything that’s landed on his shoulders since this all began. “Like you said before, asking ‘what if’ too many times will drive us both mad.  I think we both need to just accept that our lives have been foretold, and that our destiny is meant to be shared. And whatever that means, we’ll find out together.”

And that, it seems, is the summation of why they’re here and what they’re trying to do.  Merlin exhales heavily, letting all the lingering doubts and worries leave him with the breath. “That sounds good to me.”

“So, anything else?” Arthur asks, and looks to be thinking hard on the subject himself.

“Um,” Merlin tries to think of anything that might still be a secret, anything he’s never shared with Arthur out of a need to spare his feelings. “I’ve uh… always hated that red jacket of yours.”

Arthur lets out a surprised guffaw. “Oh really? Well, I thought you looked ridiculously adorable in your official uniform. Especially the hat.”

On reflex Merlin blows a breath of air up towards his head.  Of course there’s no feather dangling there now, but just the mention of _that_ hat…  “That wasn’t really the official servant’s uniform, was it?”

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Nah. I just wanted to see you wearing it.” 

Merlin chuckles. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He rocks sideways and bumps his shoulder into Arthur's. “Anything else for you?”

“I didn’t think the rat stew tasted all that bad.” Arthur admits, shouldering back into Merlin.

“I wondered who finished it all.” Merlin’s devolving to giggles at this point. “I thought it was Morgana!”

Arthur actually snorts out a laugh. “I couldn’t keep a straight face while she was taking a bite, so she figured out something was probably off about it.”

Still laughing softly, Merlin tries to think on anything else, any secret or untruth that might remain. “I can’t think of anything else, Arthur.  I mean, I’m sure if we talked over every memory we share, I could come up with things that I might have kept from you, but nothing…  nothing I think that would be a risk. Nothing that would hurt you.”

Sobering, Arthur nods. “Yeah, same here.  Nothing’s coming to mind.”

Arthur pushes to his feet and then holds a hand down to help Merlin up. He’s not above taking it. “Are you ready?”

Merlin nods. “Yeah. I think so.” And because it’s another truth he has to voice, he says the one last thing that remains on his mind. “I’m a bit scared though.  I mean, I’m so afraid I’m forgetting something, because what if I have and I’m risking our very lives and…and I’m afraid.”

“Me too,” Arthur admits. “I have the same fear.  But I think it’s worth the risk, Merlin.” He turns, putting a hand on each of Merlin’s shoulders. “I think _you’re_ worth the risk.  And I want our destiny to be forever linked. I want there to be a bond of more than just friendship between us. I want to be the other side to your coin.”

“Arthur,” Merlin barely manages to say. He’s never felt so overwhelmed. “I… it’s what I want too. I mean, I feel the same. I want to do this with you. For us.”

“I’ll go first,” Arthur offers and Merlin knows that it’s his protective nature coming to the fore, even if it will do them no good in this instance. They both have to make it through. 

So Merlin doesn’t argue, he just presses against Arthur, kissing him until they’re both panting from it when they part. “I’ll see you on the other side, then.”

“Yeah,” Arthur grins, as cocksure and confident as Merlin’s ever seen him. He steps away and strides across the greensward. 

“Arthur, wait!”

Arthur stops, just at the stone doorway.  He turns back to look at Merlin over his shoulder.

“Arthur, I…” Merlin tries to say, the words that want to follow get tangled on his tongue. “Arthur, I love you,” he finally blurts all in one long breath of sound.

Merlin doesn’t know what kind of reaction he’s expecting, but it’s not the soft, little smile or the brief little nod of surety.  He stares at Merlin, and there’s so much in his gaze – affection, acknowledgement, a modicum of aggravation (of course Merlin left it to the last moment to say) - that Merlin can almost hear words being spoken aloud.  “Merlin,” he finally says, before turning away and stepping through the door, “that’s never been a secret.”

Merlin holds his breath.

He disappears, and Merlin cannot see him beyond the egress.  Looking through, all he sees is a dark corridor into another crumbling, ancient part of the keep.

He finally breathes.  One breath. Then two. By the third and fourth, he’s reasonably sure that Arthur had to have made it to the other side. Still, he waits a few moments longer. But he can’t let his fear hold him back, not after Arthur was so brave.

“My turn,” he says aloud.  Lifting one foot over the threshold feels like the most difficult step he’s ever taken.

He steps through the door.

There’s a moment, an instant or an eternity, where he is _not_ Merlin. He is the earth and the sky and every creature that abides on its surface. He is time and memory and past and future all at once.  He can feel the weight of everything pressing down on him, turning him inside out, learning him and knowing him… flaying his soul bare.

And then it stops.  And there’s warmth.  And light and just a doorway.

When he steps out on the other side, Arthur is there, beaming at him. “Merlin!”

And Merlin can _feel_ him, can feel their connection, flooding into that empty space, filling it and making him whole.  He all but stumbles the few steps forward, to be caught in Arthur’s arms. “Arthur,” he breathes. 

‘That was perhaps the longest few seconds of my life.” Arthur laughs, clinging a bit desperately and wholly relieved. “When you didn’t come through immediately, I got a bit worried, you know, that I didn’t say it back.

Merlin draws away enough to look at him. “What do you mean?

Arthur’s cheeks pink and he looks down to Merlin’s chin. “What you said before I stepped through.”

Merlin just smiles and presses his forehead to Arthur’s. “You didn’t need to.  Because it wasn’t a secret to me, either.”

Arthur kisses him then, long and deep and full of promise. “Come on,” he says when he finally, reluctantly drags his lips away, “let’s go back to Camelot and face our destiny together.”


End file.
